


AMERICAN PSYCHO 2019

by strangeandinteresting



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: A Bateman talking at length about their interests, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Emetophobia, F/F, F/M, Hallucinations, I think I've tagged everything I know is going to happen without spoiling the story, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mila Kunis Sweetie they did you dirty with AP2, Not AS bad as the OG novel because let's be real I'm a baby, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Suicidal Thoughts, Take graphic depictions of violence to mean your usual AP level gore, Theatre Kids, but still, mwah, this one goes out to you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26515450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandinteresting/pseuds/strangeandinteresting
Summary: 'It’s all the same, only the names have changed'Patrick Bateman faded into obscurity.Patrick Bateman married Jean, his secretary who was in love with him, and had a son.Patrick Bateman had a daughter, and lost a wife.Cassandra Bateman followed in her father's footsteps.
Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Jean, Timothy Price/Luis Carruthers
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. EVENING ROUTINE

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the first chapter of American Psycho 2019! This was inspired, god, about a month ago, when I learned about the sequel-but-not-really-a-sequel movie starring Mila Kunis. I saw that it was a shoddy sequel, and felt that if American Psycho was going to have a sequel, it couldn't just throw away the themes of the original like that movie does. This is mostly based on the musical's version of the characters, though may reference some events in the book in the case that they pop up. Like The Black Prom Incident, aspiringaspie is editing this.
> 
> Enjoy...

Before I go to bed, I engage in a skincare routine that I built based on that of celebrities and style editors. I don't always have the time nor energy to engage in it daily, but when I do, I find that it often boosts my mood and productivity the following day. To begin with, I apply Philosophy (purity made simple) micellar water with a cotton pad to remove makeup, and use a clinique rinse off foaming cleanser, which cleans the skin but leaves the natural healthy oils intact. Next, a Skin Laundry hydrating facial sheet mask, which stays on for 15 minutes, usually whilst I pick out my clothes for the next day to save time in the morning. After the mask is Guerlain Abeille Royale Youth Watery Oil to lock in moisture, which I apply with a second cotton pad in a circular motion, smoothing upwards to clear water retention, which is followed by Guerlain Double R Repair and Renew Serum, which has fantastic anti-ageing properties. Penultimately, I apply Neocutis Lumiere Illuminating Eye cream (Note: It is important to never drag the skin around your eyes when applying this as the skin around your eyes is thinner and it can lead to a more tired complexion). Lastly, I moisturize with Origins High-Potency Night-a-Mins Resurfacing Cream. Once I have carried out this routine, I search my closet for a pair of my silk pajamas, the pair I decide on from Nordstrom, put them on, and lie down to sleep, allowing the day behind me to melt away in the darkness provided by my eye mask - To reduce tired looking eyes.

On the way home to my apartment, which I walked, I observed the city. The lights that turned neon and blurred in the still puddles on the ground, the filth gathering in the drains of buildings, the electronic hum of cheap signs on greasy spoon diners open late at night, the distant and aggressive beeping of taxi horns, the stranger whistling at me from across the street, the homeless man, the dollar bills I pressed into his trembling hands, the buildings that tower up into infinity, the hanging smell of tobacco, the warm breeze, the pigeons that scatter as I walk through their congregation, the thick clouds that block out the stars, the moon peering through them like an eye. Each sight, sound, smell, sensation leaves a new imprint on my soul, a new influence on my life, my way of thinking. It destroys my soul and restores it to something a little more palatable. I am the city, and the city is me. Who is Cassandra Bateman? Is she somewhere in the city, hiding in dark alleys, or in the bathroom of a club, or in a theater, or on a street corner, or loitering outside a coffee shop? Is there a true self any more? I am not sure. I lost sight of her when I was 15, and I haven't found her since. 

My apartment, _AKA Central Park_ , is situated on West 58th street, and has views of the city skyline as well as, as the name implies, proximity to Central Park. I live in a one-bedroom suite with a rather basic set of rooms - Kitchen, Living, Bath, and Bed, all decorated in serene greys with the occasional splash of blue or purple. For the most part, I have kept it the same way it was when I was first handed the keys, though I did replace the paintings hanging above the bed - initially small and rather depressing grey cubes - with works of my own. I am by no means professional as an artist, but it feels rewarding all the same, like the adult equivalent of having your childhood drawings pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet. My own little mark, impression, on the place. A little grip of control on my reality.

When I entered, the blinds were down and all the lights were off, just as I left it, making the whole place pitch black. A refreshing, calming void of nothing. I stood there for a few seconds, letting the sensory deprivation calm me, and wash the day away. Each little thought, memory, moment resurfaced, and then fizzled into nothing like alka-seltzer in water, and provided the equivalent pain relief. Then I turned on the light and I was back in a better state, and I went to find my Philosophy (purity made simple) micellar water.

I work as a secretary at the Investment Bank Pierce & Pierce. An Investment Banker acts in a capital markets advisory capacity to corporations, as opposed to individual clients, as well as assisting said corporations with financial advisory services such as mergers and acquisitions. That is the position I have my eyes on, and being a secretary is my first foot on the ladder. I find myself sorely lacking in the ability to see the rest of the steps. There are obstacles in my way, but until I can identify them, they will never move out of my path. I live in New York City and it is May 2019, nearly the end of the decade. I am twenty-four years old, turning twenty-five this June. I am Cassandra Bateman. This is my life.


	2. PIERCE & PIERCE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone tell lady luck  
> That I'm stuck here

I woke up this morning to my alarm 7:30am and ran through my usual morning yoga, which took roughly ten minutes, then I had breakfast — spiced apple Bircher muesli with diced pistachio and pomegranate seeds for topping — the preparation taking a ten minutes and consumption another five. In the remaining fifty minutes I had before I had to leave for work, I put my makeup and clothes on. It is never too extravagant, though I do like putting on eyeliner (by Bobbi Brown) and Huda Beauty lipstick (in the colour ‘Raw’). Today, I am wearing a monochrome black outfit: button up collared dress by Ralph Lauren, ankle boots by Stradivarius, and handbag by Aldo Sarenza. Sufficiently prepared for the day ahead of me and feeling confident after that routine, I step out of my apartment, lock the door behind me, and take the elevator down to the ground floor. The reception area is starkly decorated in gray stone and white painted wall like the rest of the building, a dead — or dying — tree branch in what appears to be a stone column providing the only dash of colour in the room, an unsightly streak of burnt orange. 

"Good morning," says the dirty blonde thirty-something year old woman sat at the reception desk drearily, a reusable Starbucks mug grasped in her hand, and I notice the polish on her nails is chipped, which prompts me to glance down and check my own (the gel nails are intact, to my relief).

"Good morning," I respond brightly, and before she can say anything else, I turn on my heel and leave the building, blinking in the sunlight, and head towards the subway. Every morning, my journey is as follows: I walk five minutes to 57 Street, which I ride to Essex St, and from there I ride downtown to Broad St, a journey that all in all takes about half an hour, though sometimes longer, sometimes shorter. I have a driver's license, and a car (a Bossa Nova White coloured Fiat 500) but driving in the city, as any local will tell you, tries my patience to unreasonable levels and is just not worth the stress, not to mention the traffic making what should be a short journey take _far_ longer. Horribly impractical. 

While waiting for the train at 57 Street, I hear a busker playing an acoustic rendition of "Man on the Corner" (originally by _Genesis_ ). Their voice is only somewhat passable and their playing is slightly subpar, but despite that, and I consider going to seek them out to give them a dollar, but my subway arrives and that snuffs out that little random spark of kindness I could have opted to give. The first journey of the two I take is uneventful. Not many people are on the subway and none of them are particularly interesting to look at, and so I stare at the opposite window. Rushing blackness, rumbling of wheels, and then a prerecorded voice announcing what station we are at. This repeats a few times, then I reach 57 St, where I get off and switch trains to the one going to Broad St. At the stop Chambers St on the subway to work, someone gets on who recognizes me because she walks towards me and sits by me. It takes me a second to recognize her, but eventually I do. She is the newest hire at Pierce & Pierce, a secretary like myself, and is called Rachael Blaire. She is wearing a burgundy blouse by Monki, nondescript black leggings, Dr. Marten boots, and a nondescript black, vaguely European looking, coat and a beret angled rakishly in her wavy, cropped brunette hair.

To Rachael, Cassandra Bateman is her at-work mentor and guide in this big, frightening city. She is an older sister figure, a trusted friend, a comfort. "Hey, Morning, Cassie!" she chirps cheerfully, and I genuinely cannot believe how she manages to be so alert and awake at this point of the morning.

"Hey," I reply with a ghost of a smile, looking slightly past her, but she doesn't notice.

"Soooo, how was your weekend?” She nudges me in the side with her elbow in a playful gesture, and I sigh and let her do it. “You get up to anything fun?" 

"I saw _Mean Girls_ the musical. It was pretty good,” I say casually, pretending to check my nails again. Rachael is eighteen years old, practically just out of high school, practically still a kid, and giving her arm a good _twist_ so she knows not to nudge me again is something I'm almost tempted to do, but...why do I care? She doesn’t _really_ have that coming to her, and she reminds me of myself when I was her age, a phrase that makes me feel _old._

“Awesome vocals from the lead cast, if you like Heathers as much as you said you do." I glance at her knowingly. "You'll like this one too."

Rachael nods slowly, as if I've just said something very deep and wise, continuing to talk after I shoot her a reassuring smile, since she seems so determined to tell me what _she_ got up to at the weekend. "Well I went to- I'll have to check that out, Cassie," she says very seriously, taking in a gasp and continuing with her point, "Well, I-I went to Flower City Comic Con," she says, and continues excitedly, much to the chagrin of the other tired commuters, "It’s a comic convention and it was _so_ fun, have you ever been to one?"

I search her expression for a few seconds. She looks at me expectantly, as if I really would go somewhere like that. "Sounds...riveting, but no," I finally say.

"I met Karan Ashley. You know who that is, right? The _original_ Yellow Power Ranger. She was..." And just like that, I completely lose interest and she fades out into white noise, but I still act like I can hear her, nodding, laughing, and going ‘mhm?’ and ‘oh yeah?’ at all the appropriate points of her tale, because it’s more than clear she just sought me out to talk _at_ me rather than discuss anything interesting and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. The subway pulls to a stop at Broad St, and with some vague "I'm running late, I need to file some reports" excuse, I’m out of there, walking at such a pace that Rachael can’t catch up even though we go street-side at the exact same stop and, again, work at the same office. I look back, and to my relief, I’ve lost her. I hadn't seen _Mean Girls_ this weekend. 

It is 9:00 AM when I arrive at Pierce & Pierce, a business that has been operating since...I want to say the late _60s,_ but as far back as my knowledge goes is some time in the late 80s, and the building it’s housed in still matches that. It’s long due a renovation and looks old and worn out compared to its staff; it sure would help if the environment around us finally caught up from the days of fax machines and shoulder pads. I stride through the reception of the building and into the elevator, joined by Elle Halberstam, who is wearing a black and white striped jumpsuit by Tally Weijl, heels by Prada, and sunglasses by Marc Jacobs (even though we are now firmly in the world of _no natural light_ ) _._ She looks over them at me, and nods approvingly. To Elle, Cassandra Bateman is a close friend who she went to college with, to whom she feels can confide secrets in, and I assume feel _validated_ by her. She is intelligent, style conscious, and fun at parties.

"Nice bag," she comments, returning to her earlier task of checking her hair in the mirrored walls of the elevator, but it’s perfect anyway, "Where did you pick that up from?"

"It was a gift," I say automatically, looking down at it myself. I don't actually remember where I got it from, I could have stolen it from Macy's, for all I remember.

"Nice," she says.

And that is the end of that discussion. I shoot her a grin and get out of the elevator at our floor, Elle immediately walking off in a different direction to me off towards her office. As soon as she's out of sight, the smile fades slowly from my face and my eyes affix themselves to the floor with dismayed anticipation of what this day may hold; Setting up appointments, cancelling appointments, organizing files, taking the calls of clients, giving visitors friendly smiles, setting up more appointments, taking the minutes of meetings, fetching drinks, ordering office supplies. Any combination of the above could occur today, and just the thought of it already has me exhausted in a soul-crushed kind of way. 

_I could be doing more. Elle’s an Investment Banker, we have the same set of skills,_ I think, under-stimulated, nodding occasionally at people who look at me. _We went to the same college — I should be doing more._

I nod as I confirm this fact to myself, turning a corner to my desk and sitting down. I _should_ be doing more. I switch on my computer, log in, and look tiredly at the Outlook calendar. Most of the meetings are ones I actually don't have to attend, but nonetheless, the sight of that packed schedule fills me with anxiety.

At the very instant the clock on my computer hits 9:15 AM — I use the fifteen minutes to take out all of the papers in my drawer, reorganize them, and put them back, even if they end up looking exactly the same — a plastic Starbucks cup enters my vision. I think it's a caramel frappuccino. 

"Morning!" says the person who put it there, cheerfully. The woman that I am secretary to — Tiffany Owen. She is pretty, blonde, and sweet in the kind of way where I can picture her as having been California Academy of Mathematics and Science's Senior Prom Queen of 2013 very easily, a real kind of people person, though her appearance does very little to evaporate the dread that has settled in me. Happily, she pushes the drink towards me to indicate it's mine and leans on my desk. She is wearing a white PrettyLittleThing blouse and plaid, pink trousers by Victoria Beckham. I think she's wearing Flowerbomb by Viktor Rolf, or something similar, as I catch its scent when she leans in. 

I flush lightly pink and reply, robotically, staring into the brown, syrupy depths of the drink, "Morning, Tiffany, it's late for you."

"Hey, I was getting you your present!" She drums her fingers lightly on my desk, the acrylic nails creating a clacking sound like a staple gun. I should buy a staple gun. "And, traffic, you know. Any plans for today after work...?" 

Tiffany seems to ask this with a twist of optimism, and I have to wonder how she thinks she'd be able to wriggle her way into my personal life when our relationship is purely a working one. That, and she has reminded me of exactly why my guts are twisting in anxiety so intensely, and I find myself sipping on the drink before replying, the sugar tasting bland, the paper straw already beginning to fall apart.

"Family get-together at PJ's," I say blankly, pretending to occupy myself with my computer, the screen of which Tiffany can't see. I don't look up to see her expression, but I get the impression that, perhaps, she's a little disappointed, to the point where she doesn't actually offer a reply as she traipses away to her office other than a "Hm!" of friendly acknowledgement, because she wouldn't dare pry more than that when I'm being so unspecific. 

  
To Tiffany Owen, Cassandra Bateman is a secretary. _Her_ secretary. And there is nothing more to that role I play. Secretly, I hope she thinks of me like some kind of enigma, some kind of mystery to be riddled out, unravelled like a poorly knitted scarf. I wonder, would she like what she found if she picked apart the stitches? Her heels, which make her taller by a few inches, but still much shorter than me, are by Casadei.


	3. DINNER PARTY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And though the people around me  
> Their mouths are still moving  
> The words they are forming  
> Cannot reach me anymore

“Tim, I don’t _care_ that the _Child’s Play_ franchise took a turn in a weird direction after the third one, it does _not_ need remaking!” 

My dad paces the length of the room back and forward as he rants to the small assembled group, on the subject of horror movies this time; one of his favourite points of discussion.

“The original is a great work of horror — Jesus, this is that _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ remake all over again!”

I am at a family gathering at my brother’s apartment on some high-up floor of The Encore building on the west side of Central Park, looking over the New York skyline with a glass of spiced rum in my hand, listening to all of this. Today is the closest day to my birthday, which is on June 1st, that everyone could get to the city, and though initially we were going to have reservations at some new Korean restaurant in midtown, the reservations got booked over and we ended up simply settling for gathering here. It’s not ideal, it’s the _last_ thing I wanted: to be forced to spend more time out with people when I could have just had a meal and be done with it. And although I pleaded with Patrick Jr. to book somewhere else, he simply wasn’t having it. Thus, a long dinner party with the family. Attending this are my brother (obviously), my father, two uncles, and aunt. Uncle Sean _had_ made a commitment to coming, but he’d stopped returning my dad’s calls all day and did not show his face despite clearly being active online, which is most likely the reason for my dad’s sour mood. Even though I told him he didn’t need to be such a papa bear, it seems it has still persisted throughout the evening.  
  


“But Patrick, I thought you liked that movie?” asks one of my uncles over his glass of wine, tilting his head to one side.  
  


“Yes, _Luis_ , I _did,_ but that is hardly the point I’m making here.” My dad stops pacing and pinches the bridge of his nose irritatedly, and I’m trying to ignore him. “That movie _was_ good, but _christ,_ the string of shitty remakes that got turned out because of it, like—”  
  


“ _Pet Sematary_?” suggests my aunt.

“ _Pet Sematary!”_ my dad says with a slight, vindicated smile, nodding at her.

“Pet Sematary,” my uncle, Timothy, echoes grimly.

_Happy Birthday to me, happy birthday to me..._

At the weekend, when I went to the MET, I observed many statues. Depictions of joy, of grief, or simply just remnants of ancient life — like a toy for a child, or a statuette representative of a farmer. I found my mind drawn back, as I walked the pristine corridors amongst tourists, to a time in high school, where we might have learned the history or story of such statues. In that moment, while also remembering that I would be meeting my family on Monday, I recalled this this: in Greek Myth, it is said that Kronos, the lord of time, was plagued with a horrifying vision that, when his godly children grew up, they would kill him for his crown as King of deities. He was wracked with grief and terror — he loved his children. He was also wracked with something else: a sick fear that the prophecy would come true overcame him. It drove him entirely insane, so insane that one after another, when his wife Rhea bore him a child, he would personally devour them, to ensure there was no chance of that uprising ever coming to fruition. Eleven little sets of limbs, brains, organs and hearts, crushed under unmerciful canines and molars, never to be seen again. Or so Kronos had hoped. As Gods, _immortals_ , too, the infants felt all of this. Not for one second could they close their eyes to the torment, and pretend that their father loved them even a scrap. 

I’d recalled all of this in an instant, and overcome, I had to leave the MET before anyone noticed the panic attack I was having whilst staring headlong into a marble bust’s lifeless eyes. They reminded me too much of my own.

I only recall this experience again — having hastily put it out of my mind as I escaped that labyrinth of a museum — as I notice, sipping on my drink, that my brother has acquired some new, tacky piece of art. It’s a reproduction of a marble bust of Athena (the head of Medusa on her armor being a dead giveaway) that has been painted over in a loud turquoise color, and I very much consider it an insult to the original sculptor’s intent. However, when I turn to bring it up to Patrick Jr., he is missing. Before anyone notices, I try to turn around and look at the New York skyline through the glass wall of his apartment, but I’m not subtle enough, and catch my father’s eye. 

“He’s in the kitchen, Cass,” he says from across the room, turning away from the conversation for a moment, and though I give him a light smile and nod in response, I hate that he’s able to read my intentions so quickly and accurately. 

Patrick Bateman is a mere ghost of the man I’ve seen in photographs of the 80’s. Though the face is undoubtedly the same, there’s something that’s just completely different — age has cut into him like a dagger. He is wearing a navy single-breasted suit by Reiss, a tie by Ermenegildo Zegna, and shoes by Alden. He’s not usually in suits, but then again, this is supposed to be a special occasion, even if it feels remarkably run-of-the-mill. My gut twists nervously. Around him, I play the perfect daughter, the child prodigy, and I can only assume that he does the same, but in reverse. 

“Did...you need me to get your glass?" he continues with a hint of apprehension in his voice, noticing the empty glass in my hand, but wordlessly I shake my head and head off towards the kitchen as casually as I can manage. On the way there, I hear my aunt ask with drunkenly slurred words, “Patrick, did you never teach her to talk?”

True to my father’s word, Patrick Jr. is in the kitchen, frantically texting someone, though I don’t catch _who_ before he locks the screen at the sound of someone entering the room. He’s wearing the same thing he was wearing at work today — a gray three piece suit and tie by Ted Baker, and loafers by Allen Edmonds — and looks _equally_ as pissed as Dad does. He’s just as unhappy as me that we had to call off reservations, I can tell, and even though he busies himself with cleaning up as soon as he notices me, it’s pretty obvious he came in here to escape. 

“Evening,” I say casually, ignoring whatever he was doing before I entered the room, deciding that, at least for tonight, it’s not my business.

“Uh, _evening._ ” He opens a drawer, then closes it again without getting anything out. Looking up at me, slightly wild-eyed, he asks, “You...okay? Enjoying yourself?”

Eyeing him a little suspiciously, I cross past him and run the empty glass under the faucet, cleaning it off and setting it on the drying rack. “Dad’s pissed,” I tell him blankly, and he groans, leaning on the counter. “Did Uncle Sean say anything to you? About showing up?”

“Nope. Nada. Fuck him, who needs him?” PJ says sharply after very little consideration.

“Oh, don’t say that, PJ,” I say admonishingly, even though I’m actually inclined to agree with his point of view. “You like him.”

PJ pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “Correction: _liked_. Past. Fucking. Tense. He’s an asshole these days.”

I roll my eyes, leaning on the opposite counter. “He’s _always_ been an asshole.”

“Yeah, but it’s not fun anymore,” He continues to complain, huffing slightly, “He’s just exhausting to be around.”

_Speak for yourself,_ I think, and almost leave PJ to his sulking when a text on my phone distracts me, the name of the sender making me feel as though I’ve swallowed an ice cube. 

“Oh _shit,_ ” I murmur automatically, unlocking my phone and looking over the message, the icy feeling spreading out to my fingertips.

“What is it?” PJ asks, only vaguely interested, and then adds, a little hopefully, “Is it Elle?”

“ _Oh_ shit,” I repeat, shaking my head, staring at the screen in disbelief. “Speaking _of_ assholes, Eric wants to take me out on a date.” 

Immediately upon hearing that, PJ throws his head back and laughs, because he’s the only person who’s been privy to my attempts to fend off Eric Hamlin’s courting; he’s an investment banker at P&P too, and one with a pretty obvious infatuation with me that he makes little to no attempt to hide. I find him only vaguely repulsive on good days, and on bad ones, the kind of person I’d go out of my way just to not interact with. Young and handsome, sure, but with absolutely no good aspects of a personality to speak of. 

“Ugh, it’s not _funny,_ PJ.” I shoot a glare at my brother, tapping the screen to stop it from going black. “I can _not_ believe I even let him think that I...”

_...liked him._ Ugh.

“So what are you going to tell Romeo, huh?” PJ appears to be in a better mood, now that _I’m_ the annoyed one instead, and though the smirk he’s wearing as he looks over my shoulder pisses me off, I’m not so high and mighty that I can’t see the humor in the situation. I smile too, still shaking my head.

“Fuck off,” I shrug PJ off, who had rested his head on top of mine, a clear struggle for him since he’s not even _that_ much taller than me. “I’m not going to tell him no, I _can’t..._ ” 

I sigh, tap the screen again, and tug on my sleeve. Even though I could very easily tell Hamlin to take a hike, but if I go about it in the wrong kind of way, I’m liable to make things really awkward in office, because Rachael is _his_ secretary, is fiercely protective of him (I think they went to the same high school, or something like that), and if I’m too harsh then she’s probably not going to talk to me again. Then again, maybe avoiding another ’Yellow Power Ranger’ type situation might do me some good? Ultimately, I am undecided. I text back a quick ’Sure,’ and the instant I hit send, inspiration strikes. I continue to type, speaking the message aloud as I go:

“Make...it...a...double...date...and...I’ll...con...sid...er...it...”

_“What?”_ says PJ, who had finally been on his way out of the room and has his hand on the door, but I’ve piqued his interest again and he turns back to me.

“Come with us. Invite Elle.” I’m not looking at my brother, instead texting Hamlin as I talk, who I know will agree to this because at this point, I’ve been putting off going on a date with him for months and he’ll take whatever he can get. “I _cannot_ face him alone, and _you_ want to make moves on her. It’s a win-win.”

“Cass...” he starts, _warningly_ , but the cogs are turning in his head. He’s not the only guy at P&P with poor subtlety when it comes to his crushes.

“I’ll book somewhere nice, come _on._ ” I press on, looking up at him imploringly, “Call her. Call her when everyone goes home and ask her out, she’s _obsessed_ with you.”

“Are you two okay?” 

The door opens and there stands my father, and that same icy, sick feeling comes right back to me as soon as I hear his voice. I see PJ’s mood take a dip right back into sour at the sight of him.

My father continues, “You didn’t break anything...?” 

“No,” my brother replies maybe a little too quickly, so now Dad’s going to think that we’re keeping something from him. “It’s my _apartment_ , anyway, I’d deal with it.” 

Nothing more is said on that subject, but PJ’s message is clear — _“I’m twenty-fucking-nine, stop babying me already”_ — and as before, I side with him. One of our phones buzzes, and we all check, but it’s PJ who appears to be the one with a text, and without replying to it, he puts the phone back in his suit pocket. I exchange a glance with him, and walk past my dad into the hallway, staying to listen once out of sight.

“Who was that?” he asks.

“No one. Someone from work.” PJ sounds too defensive, and I curse him for being the absolute _worst_ at hiding when something’s going on with him — he’s like an open book, even if it’s one that won’t let you read it, because all the writing’s scribbled out. “ _No one_ ,” he reiterates firmly.

I see the bust of Athena again from where I’m standing, and realise that I envy her. At least, when she was grown, she didn’t have to live with Kronos’s presence always breathing down her neck. Mentally, I’m back at that class again, back at the MET. Kronos was long dead. Zeus, the twelfth child, the youngest, slaughtered him.


	4. CAR CRASH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a movement  
> In my head  
> Saints and angels  
> What can it be?

It’s the end of the work day and I’ve just managed to get out of a particularly dull meeting, where the discussion started on a relevant topic, but ended up drifting to whatever the participants could think of other than their work — clothes, new restaurants opening, old restaurants closing, how bad seeing all those homeless people makes them feel on their commute, what’s the most ideal way to have your apartment set out and if open plan living is _really_ that good, blah, blah, _blah._ Initially, I had been taking down notes as dutifully as I could, but when the discussion started to waver, so did my brain, and I had to hastily delete what had turned from shorthand notes on mergers and acquisitions to a rather poetic verse about how beautiful blood might look splattered on PJ’s white apartment walls, or even on my own. But my landlord would kill me if she saw, or at least make me pay out the ass to paint over it.

The dinner party at PJ’s had an unprecedented effect on my psyche, and for the past day I had found myself shaky and anxious and somewhat manic, like a wound up coil waiting to snap.

As soon as I’m out of the room I say a quick goodbye to Tiffany, not stopping when she opens her mouth again to ask me something, and I leave the building as fast as I can. On my way out, I hear someone say, “Hey Blaire, nice shoes!” but I don’t stop for them either, single minded in my goal to get outside before the stuffy building _chokes me_. I am wearing a blouse by BooHoo, jeans by 7 For All Mankind, pumps by Valentino, and I slip a pair of Ray-Bans that tint the world red on as soon as I push through the doors. My legs are taking me somewhere and my mind is barely following along, and by the time it catches up, I’m on a subway that’s not the one home, but it is heading up towards Central Park, in the area, so I probably shouldn’t be too worried, but I am regardless. It’s at Times Square that I get off the subway, and for some reason how tall the buildings are _staggers_ me even though I’ve been here a hundred times before, and the setting sun’s not comforting and nostalgic like it’s always been. It’s hot, burning, staring. Like an accusatory eye. No one around me looks real anymore, they all seem like extras in a movie doing some menial task just in case the camera happens to pick them up — not people, just a robotic mask of normalcy. My eyes begin to water when I realise there is very little setting me apart from them.

I’m walking again, and I feel a little more controlled this time but it’s mostly because I’m running away from...what? The crowd? The advertisements? The sun? But I’m walking away at a quick pace and the instant I pass a busker playing “Smooth Criminal,” a car on the other side of the street swerves, and hits a fire hydrant hard. Immediately, the front bonnet of the car — a Ferrari F8 Spider — crumples, and the fire hydrant is knocked to one side, spraying water over passers-by in an aggressive stream that knocks them back. I’m untouched but frozen to the spot. A memory flashes in my brain, and immediately I cross the street to the wreck. _PJ, PJ, PJ,_ I’m thinking, but the person being pulled out of it — seemingly no worse for wear aside from a cut on the forehead — isn’t him, even if it looks like him at first glance. This does nothing to stop how pent up I am, and wiping tears from under my sunglasses, I’m fleeing again, my mind somewhere else entirely.

Why did that car crash? Did the driver simply lose control? Did he fall asleep at the wheel? Did he mean to cause a disturbance? Did he mean to hurt others? Did he mean to hurt himself? If that crash had been worse, did that driver have a family he’d leave behind? Did he have a little sister and a father he’d leave behind? 

My self awareness returns and I’m outside the Richard Rodgers Theatre. The white brick building is done up in golden posters and lights for Hamilton, the show it’s running, but it’s all just red, red, _red_ to me. I walk up to the box office, but there’s a sign reading ‘SOLD OUT,’ and I don’t know why but I’m disappointed even though I didn’t want to see the show in the first place.

“Cassandra?” I hear someone say, “Are you all right?”

“Huh? What?” My head darts around, looking for who spoke, and I find myself looking at, to my continued distress, Eric Hamlin, who looks genuinely concerned, and a fifty or sixty-something year old man I don’t recognise, who looks me up and down, inspecting my outfit.

“Whuh- u-uhm, _yes...?_ ” I say cautiously, trying to slip on a mask of normalcy, but it’s a poorly constructed one because the concerned look doesn’t fade from his face, and he approaches tentatively. Hamlin is wearing a polo shirt, jeans, and shoes, all by Emporio Armani. (I can’t tell the color, it’s all red. Why am I not taking these Ray-Bans off?)

“Is something wrong...?” He gives a glance towards the older man, and a nod that prompts him to roll his eyes and linger closer to the theatre doors. Like some kind of knight in shining armor, he takes my hand, and in my unprecedented weak state I let him do it. “You’re _shaking_.”

“Are you coming in or what?” barks the older man, and Hamlin shoots me an apologetic look, puts his arm around my shoulder, and turns the both of us around. My stomach churns. I legitimately might be sick.

“In a minute, Dad, I-I was just talking to _Cassandra_.” He says my name with a certain emphasis that tells me two things: he wants me to play along with whatever lie he’s about to tell, and that this man (Hamlin’s dad) clearly already knows about me, or at least some fictional version of me. “My... _girlfriend._ ”

I feel as though the pavement below us is cracking and splintering, and that I’m going to fall into the cracks when they get big enough, and just fall for _eternity._

The older man raises his eyebrows, mildly impressed, and folds his arms. “Bateman’s kid, yeah?” he asks, and I nod, my throat closing up, “And would little Miss Bateman like to join us?” 

I’m caught. I’ve been desperate to get tickets to Hamilton, but my busy life has meant I haven’t been able to get around to booking them, or organising to see them with anyone, or even having time to see it in the first place. And, I think, it might not be too bad, because you’re not supposed to talk during a show, and if I pretend the two men aren’t there it might be fine. And then, I think, I’d still be acutely aware of their presence, of the fact that Hamlin Sr. was under the impression I was dating his son, and of the fact that Eric Hamlin was in love with me enough to be able to convincingly pretend I _was too_. No, it’s out of the question, I can’t.

“They’re sold out,” I offer far more meekly than I intend to, and shrug Hamlin’s hand off of my shoulder. “And I-...I gotta...” _Excuses, excuses, excuses._ “M _mm_ meet my... _nutritionist._ At my apartment.”  
  
  
“I can call you an Uber?” offers Hamlin, giving me a little hurt look but backing off all the same, back to his dad, and I’m already backing away myself. “I’ll see you at Il Cantinori on Friday night, okay?” 

I’m in earshot long enough to hear Hamlin Sr. say, “Looks just like Bateman’s secretary, y’know?” and my teeth clench. My fists are screwed up into balls so tight that I think my nails are drawing blood on my palm.


	5. DOUBLE DATE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you decided it’s safer in cages  
> Singing when you’re told?

In the days leading up to Friday, I found myself very disturbed. I had been sleeping only a few hours each night, letting my morning routine slip to the point where I had actually been late to work one day (Tiffany was irritatingly understanding about that). I also began to find that strange occurrences had begun to follow me wherever I went. Though years ago, I thought I had finally banished the more violent of my intrusive thoughts, it seems as if they’ve been creeping back into my head, insidiously, like spiders, to the point where I cannot even so much as glance at even a butter knife without imagining what I could do with it, who I could hurt with it. It seems that my desire to buy a staple gun earlier in the week had simply been a prophecy — a sign of things to come.

Earlier on in the evening, I’d spent a long time getting ready. This consisted of going through outfits, doing my makeup, taking it all off again, having another shower, getting dressed only to break down sobbing in the mirror because it just didn’t look right and I couldn’t figure out why, and then considering excuses as to why I couldn’t attend. Maybe I could say I was sick? Maybe I could say I had to stay up doing some work? I had to leave town on short notice? Fake my death? Fake someone else’s death? None of it is plausible; I’m  _ caught _ . Somehow, despite all this, I managed to make myself look presentable, and though my eyes are red and puffy, I’m waiting outside of Il Cantinori, early and unwilling to go inside as the reservations aren’t under my name, they’re under Hamlin’s. Tonight, I’ve chosen to wear a lace dress with a sweetheart neckline by Cameo Rose. My ankle boots and clutch bag are both by Furla, earrings by Bibi Marini; the entire ensemble is red. My throat closes up and I’m trying not to look at my outfit, because even now it feels wrong, and I shouldn’t have chosen red, but it’s too late to go home now, because Hamlin has just stepped out of a cab. Blinking rapidly, I manage to smile at him, and he smiles back, charmingly.

He looks rather plain, especially for him, in a black button up shirt by Hugo Boss, a corduroy suit jacket by Ralph Lauren, and Tommy Hilfiger jeans, both in gray. 

“You look beautiful tonight,” he comments, and though a compliment from him is the last thing I want when I’m angling to have him off my tail by the end of the night, it undeniably makes me feel better. “Are you...okay?” he adds, a little cautiously, tilting his head to one side, and the warm feeling that had momentarily settled in me evaporates instantly.

“Yeah,” I nod, “I was just having a bad day on Tuesday, that was nothing to do with you.”

He nods back, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring across the street at our reflection in the window of a closing department store. It’s hard to tell if that answer satisfies him, and thinking back to that day, my state almost certainly got worse when I encountered him, a fact that most certainly couldn’t have escaped his notice.

“I’m, ah, sorry about  _ that _ , if it means anything.” He folds his hands behind his back, eyes meeting pavement. “My dad’s a real  _ asshole,  _ and I thought...y’know, he’s always asking me when I’m gonna get a girlfriend so...” Hamlin trails off, looking distant, and just a little upset. 

“It’s okay, it’s whatever,” I deflect him, folding my arms, looking across the street at our reflections, and I can’t make out our faces, just dark silhouettes wearing expensive clothes. “My dad’s an asshole too.”

“Were you upset?" he presses on, and I'm not sure if he's purposefully ignoring my attempt to relate to him, or if he's genuinely so wrapped up in his own melodrama to notice it. Hamlin notices I haven't replied, clears his throat, and reiterates, “You  _ seemed _ upset.”

“I really wasn’t.” I’m tense now, gripping my sleeve, and trying to finish this interrogation before it can get off the ground. “ _ Eric _ .”

There is silence between us two for a few precious moments, the world continuing to noisily buzz around us as I consider telling him now that I don’t want to date him, but PJ and Elle could be here any moment, and Eric’s reaction is something I find myself unable to predict. Though the two of them probably couldn’t care less about the relationship between myself and Hamlin, I doubt they’d want to sit through a date with me third-wheeling alone, instead of having someone else to focus my attention. The thought of that happening is giving me a headache. 

“...you sure?” Eric tries again, and when I turn he’s looking at me with wide eyes, and it’s likely that a similar thought to mine was going through his head in those quiet moments. It genuinely surprises me that he seems  _ aware  _ I have no interest in him, but is pursuing a relationship anyway. What is he even trying to do here?

“ _ Yes,  _ I am sure.” I slip my hand into his, cursing myself for bringing up Tuesday in the first place, giving a bright grin. “I’m  _ peachy _ .”

“Okay, well...” His cheeks dust a light pink, eyes flickering between me and the pavement. “I kind of got the vibes that you wanted to take things slowly, that’s fine by me, we don’t have to define  _ us  _ just yet—”

A tap on his shoulder shuts him up and, thank god, it’s Elle and my brother. Elle looks pissed off and is clutching a Valentino Couture handbag in one hand and PJ’s hand in the other. She is dressed better than me, looking like she stepped out of the pages of an issue of Vogue from the 80s: in a velvet, deep purple dress by Choices, Jimmy Choo pumps, a pinstripe suit jacket by Stradivarius, a necklace by Chanel Vintage, and tights, all in black. She looks much better than I do, her makeup is done better and beside her I feel less like myself and more like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. Feeling embarrassed and small, I look to PJ who is visibly sweating, and looks uncharacteristically jittery. He is in a button up dress shirt by Calvin Klein — the same colour as Elle’s dress — jacquard trousers and brogues, both by Burberry, both in black. Even if _they_ haven’t confirmed their relationship yet either, they make a far more handsome couple, and the thought of that is something that I really can’t decide how I feel about. 

As we walk into the restaurant and are led to our seats, I feel angry, and then sad, and then relieved, but finally settle on simply feeling empty. Hamlin squeezes my hand again, but there’s a marked change in his demeanor, his nervous boyishness gone, replaced with a steely look that reminds me of myself, in a way.

The restaurant is bustling, mostly couples, though there are also two families seated near the back of the room, one with a very small child sat in a high-chair, and I desperately pray it doesn’t begin crying. Il Cantinori is nice, but it’s not as nice as I thought it would be — not very high class — and I’m embarrassed yet again, albeit second-hand on behalf of Eric, who made the reservations and who is now ignoring me and looking over the menu. Elle’s menu is sat flat in front of her on the table, and she is only vaguely looking at it with ill-contained contempt. We all look far too glamorous to be here.

“Traffic,” PJ mutters, tapping the provided salad fork on the table in an incessant rhythm, and then continues in a louder tone after clearing his throat, “The-The Uber, it got stuck in traffic, that’s why we’re late.” 

He gets ignored. Few words of small talk are exchanged before the waiter — some twenty-something young man, probably an actor — returns to our table to take all our orders. Upon Elle’s recommendation, I order the Fegato Di Vitello Alla Salvia, which is, as the menu reads in rather flowery language, calf’s liver sauteed with brown butter & sage. Everyone else orders too, but I’m hardly paying attention to them; the wine glass in front of me has a small smudge on it which disappears as wine is poured into it, and anyway, the waiter is gone before I can say anything about it. I’m very quiet as the plates get put down in front of us, and conversation finally starts up over dinner (mostly Elle and Eric talking between themselves), but PJ’s demeanor has done nothing but worsen, and the idea that this has something to do with who he was frantically texting on Monday night, and dread settles in my stomach because I’ve seen this behavior in him before. He can’t be doing this again, there is no way he can be doing this again. But then, I think, I’m probably being paranoid. Witnessing that car crash had frightened me for this long, and though his nervous attitude could mean something, it’s much more likely it means nothing. Maybe he’s just sick, or maybe he had a bad day, or maybe he’s nervous to spend time with Elle. I’m surely overthinking it.

“Cass says you saw  _ Hamilton _ the other day,” Elle says after taking another long sip of her wine, addressing Eric. She seems a lot less angry now that she’s inebriated, reminding me of the first time I met her at a college mixer (she was crying in the bathroom, I believe after having been recently dumped, and I did my best to lift her spirits despite being incredibly drunk too). “How was that? I’ve not seen it yet.”

“Good,” he says, disinterestedly, not looking at her. “I guess.”

“You  _ guess?”  _ I instinctively say, a little offended on behalf of the cast, but when everyone at the table gives me a funny look, I realise that it’s maybe a little too hostile of a response to something that wasn’t even directed at me. “I...I just...think it’s a little better than ‘I guess’...”

“Well, of  _ course,  _ I enjoyed the story of it all — the presentation of the founding fathers as people with some  _ personality  _ as opposed to just these…portraits in books?  _ That  _ was good.” Hamlin is nodding vigorously as he says this, confidently asserting his opinion. “Those are some guys I can _ respect _ . Just wasn’t totally into the music, it was too—” 

He looks like he’s going to say something somewhat  _ controversial _ , but falters as he seems to notice that he’s sitting at a table with other people, and uncomfortably clears his throat before continuing, all the while Elle’s giving him a look like a toreador facing down a rather pathetic looking bull, and PJ is staring pointedly down at his plate, cracking an uncomfortable grin. “It...uh...wasn’t my  _ thing. _ ”

“Oooh, don’t say that, Eric, not while Cass is at the table,” PJ lifts his head, and though a nervous, flighty air still hangs around him, he seems to look a little better now he’s trying to actually get involved in the conversation. “She’d crucify you for that, she  _ loves  _ musicals.”

Hamlin raises his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair. “Really now?”

“ _ Yeah _ .” I flush pink, shooting PJ a dirty look because I know exactly where he’s about to take this, and I’d really like it if he didn’t, but his grin just gets a little bit wider at that. A thought enters my mind that I’d like to do nothing more than crucify the both of them, string them up on the top of the apartment building as the sun sets and let them bleed. Maybe even string Elle up too to complete the vision of the crucifixion of Christ. Then I blink, and bite the inside of my cheek, because I don’t want to do that to them. Elle and Eric are, in the loosest definition of the word, my  _ friends _ , and PJ is my  _ brother _ . I don’t want to hurt any of them like that (or at least, I don’t  _ think  _ I do?).

“Yeah,” PJ repeats after me, slightly imitating my tone. “She used to be an actress herself, did you know that? Any of you?” 

They shake their heads.

“In high school! I was in a few school musicals in  _ high school _ ,” I clarify, my jaw clenching, though Eric just gives me an amused look, and Elle seems genuinely invested. “If you  _ have  _ to know, I was Roxie Hart in  _ Chicago,  _ Fantine in  _ Les Mis _ , and Liesl von Trapp in  _ The Sound of Music _ .” 

“Uh, what about  _ Carrie? _ ” PJ looks and sounds affronted. “You literally  _ played  _ Carrie, how could you have forgotten that?”

“Wait, like that movie from the 70’s?” Elle tilts her head to one side, confused but intrigued, “That got made into a musical? It’s a  _ horror. _ Fucked up one at that, not very all-singing all-dancing.”

“I thought that one was shit, anyway?” Eric comments as his plate is taken away from him, equally confused. “Dad was one of the ‘lucky’ few who saw it on Broadway before it performed a flop of  _ epic  _ proportions, he said it was shit.”

“Your dad’s a misogynist, Eric,” PJ says tiredly, and for a second Eric shrinks back into the sensitive man I met before Elle and my brother appeared. “He probably just didn’t like that it had so many girls in it. No, no, they  _ rewrote  _ it, and Cass was in a production of that about...ah, six-ish years ago?”

I’m blinking back tears at this point, mortified that he’d even bring this up, and I finish my third glass of wine.

“Whoa, so did they...did they dump blood on you? For  _ real?”  _ Elle asks, mouth hanging in a half-open smile. “Like, not real blood, but did they dump  _ something  _ on you?”

“Yeah,” I choke a little on my drink as I respond, but recover quickly. “Took a few tries to get it right, and on the last night they used  _ way  _ too much, it got all up in my eyes.” 

I remember that night, thinking about still managing to sing the incredibly demanding sequence “The Destruction” almost completely blind. I think I got very in character that night, because the sheer amount of  _ blood  _ they dumped on me caught me off guard, which stung. Looking out the window, I see it is raining now, and I remember I’m all in all red now too.  _ And God made Eve to bear the curse,  _ I think, almost finding the whole thing humorous, looking back on it.  _ The curse of blood! The curse of blood! _

“Huh,” Eric comments, and the song continues in my head ( _ his name is Tommy Ross, Mama, he’ll have me home by midnight _ ). “That’s pretty neat, actually. Good for you for...going through that.” 

_ An eagle’s just another bird until he can spread his wings! _

I’m no longer thinking about the song, but I swear I can  _ hear it _ from somewhere in the restaurant, from the kitchen. It’s my own voice, or someone who sounds like me, but she holds the note amazingly and it raises to a deafening crescendo. Looking around, nobody else seems to notice. An imaginary chorus jeers this imaginary Carrie White:  _ “Open your heart, let Jesus in!”  _ Maybe it’s a message the world is trying to tell me, I think, or maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Or maybe, just maybe, I am in some serious need of help.

Dinner, for the most part, passes without incident, though I keep hearing phantom snatches of the musical and try my hardest to ignore it, and give a smile, and crack a joke, and soon we’re paying the bill, and both Eric and Elle leave separately, leaving PJ and I to wait for a cab outside, under the green and red canopy of the restaurant. Though he had eventually started smiling and laughing along with the rest of us, now his expression looks incredibly grim. He looks frightened, even. Frightened that he is alone with me?

_ “They’ll make fun of you, they will break your heart,” _ my lips move soundlessly, “The Destruction” stuck in my head.  _ “Then they’ll laugh at you, watching you fall apart.” _

PJ is texting someone again, angled so I can’t see whoever it is.

“I, uh, I’ll catch you tomorrow, okay?” he says rather suddenly, shoving his phone into his back pocket and walking away. “At work.”

“It’s Friday, PJ and-...where are you  _ going? _ ” I ask, a little hurt, a little confused. “The taxi’s almost here, you...” My words falter. Maybe I’d been too quick to dismiss that his odd behavior was simply nothing.

“Oh, and hey, happy birthday!” he calls from down the street, and then disappears around a corner. I’m still mouthing the words to the song as I get into the car, hands folded over my lap. I think I’m crying again.

I am  _ twenty-five _ years old.


	6. BIRTHDAY PARTY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A party that ends  
> With somebody crushed and alone  
> (And ugly-crying)

There’s a party at Tiffany Owen’s apartment in The Sierra on West 15th Street, and so, after spending a few hours rewatching old recordings of _Keeping up with the Kardiashans_ over and over as I get ready (a show that inspired, and still does inspire, extreme vitriol in me), I’m stepping out of a cab and heading into the imposing orange apartment building on my own, walking past a sign advertising “Smoke Free Luxury Apartments” under a bold **RENT NOW** heading.  
  
  
It was midday a few weeks ago when Tiffany asked me if I’d like to go; we were walking back to her office after a meeting, and I was trying to hide my notebook from her, afraid she’d notice that I hadn’t actually been taking the minutes of the meeting (which devolved quickly into a circus of red and blue politics), but had instead been drawing spiders. Hundreds and hundreds, some of them little doodles, some of them lifelike to the point where I could swear they’d crawl off the page, and then so many to the point where the page was completely black aside from crisscrossing little legs. I had just settled at my desk, about to slip my headphones in and listen to the _Be More Chill_ cast recording in its entirety again — because despite having seen the show and listened to it many times over, I was still not sure if I even enjoyed it — but before I could, I heard Tiffany’s light, flutey voice from the doorway, and some strange feeling compelled me to actually listen to her this time.

“I’m...I’m throwing a party at my place this Saturday,” she’d said simply, leaning on the frame, wearing some black dress that looked a lot like my Stradivarius one, and when I turned to look at her, her expression was that of an apprehensive smile. “For my birthday. The invite’s out there if you wanna...?”

She’d let the question hang, and for what felt like an eternity my eyes flickered between her piercingly blue eyes and pale pink lips, hanging partly open in that same nervous smile, and I found myself nodding. “Sure, sure,” I said, absent-mindedly tugging on my sleeves. “What...time do I need to be there?”

“Uh...let’s say...six? Seven?” She clicked her tongue for a few seconds, “Seven, and you don’t need to, y’know, _dress up_ for it or anything...” Then, in an undertone, _“Even though Mom’s probably going to overdress...”_

I’d pretended not to hear that last part, nodding slightly and tearing the page of spiders out of my journal. I then asked her if she had seen _Hamilton_ yet. She said she hadn’t, and retreated into her office for the rest of the day.

For the party, I’ve decided upon a strangely bright ensemble for myself: a blouse and trousers by Mango (the blouse being white and embroidered with red and blue flowers, the trousers a matching blue colour), with Maison Margiela ankle boots and Topshop earrings styled to look like a chain of small poppies. Though I am not sure what the reason is for the flowery look, as I very rarely wear all this, I’m greeted with some form of an answer when Tiffany opens her apartment door, and I see she is wearing something that, in some way, matches me — a red Dolce & Gabbana dress that is red, covered in large prints of flowers in various colours, and white Victoria Beckham pumps. She appears to greet me, but the words don’t reach my ears and I’m nodding dumbly and giving my best smile. 

“Come in, come in!” I finally hear her say, and the music in the place hits my ears all at once like a tidal wave, and Tiffany’s got her arm around my shoulder, which must be an effort for her when I’m about a foot taller than her, guiding me through a crowd of people I don’t know, and she’s pouring me a drink of something pink and fizzy that tastes sweet, and I maintain my smile and thank her, my face feeling immediately hot.

“You’ve got a nice place, Tiffany,” I say genuinely, looking around at the pastel decor, and even though I’m not particularly jealous, I have to admit it when someone’s got a strong sense of aesthetic. “Nice...place.”

“You think?” she asks, touched, nursing a glass of the same drink she got me. “Thanks, I try.”

“How old are you now?” I ask, smiling and nodding at someone who walks by and tells me I look great tonight. “Sweet twenty-first?” I indicate the drinks we’ve got, and now that I’ve got a little more clarity I think it’s some kind of flavoured pink gin and lemonade.

Tiffany rolls her eyes, but laughs all the same. “You _flatterer,_ you’re such a flatterer!” She nudges my side, and I pretend to stumble from it in a way so she knows I’m faking. “No, no, I’m twenty- _four,_ actually.” 

She glances around the room a little bit, seemingly taking the headcount of everyone who’s there, and then her eyes seem to momentarily widen in a signal I see, but don’t quite understand. The whole place smells of the same flowery perfumes Tiffany wears, and though it’s ever present, it’s pleasantly not overpowering, and I find myself calming down despite the crowd. We’ve been talking for a few minutes — the topics being stocks, the political scandals seemingly cropping up every day on twitter, which restaurants are most likely to end up on _Kitchen Nightmares_ if there’s ever another season, etcetera — when a fifty-something year old woman makes her way through the crowd to us, though it’s clear some expensive skin routine’s knocking about ten years off her age physically. She’s all in white — a Topshop jumpsuit, heels by Prada, a Theory handbag, and Marcolin sunglasses on her forehead — and that, combined with her golden blonde hair and perfect smile, makes her look like some kind of royalty. I have to admit, I’m impressed. She’s hugging Tiffany, then fussing over her like she’s still a teen girl, and seeing them side by side, I realise this woman is Tiffany’s mother, and that she definitely _is_ overdressed.

“And who’s this?” she asks, still smiling and turning to me, a hand resting on Tiffany’s shoulder.

“Cass, Cass Bateman,” I say amiably, extending my hand, and though her smile doesn’t fade as she takes it, some light in her eyes seems to partially go out. “I’m Tiffany’s secretary.”

“Evelyn Owen,” she says in a mildly strained voice, and Tiffany’s looking at me expectantly, like the two of us are in on some kind of secret that we’re not telling her, but in reality I have no idea why Miss Owen is looking at me like that. “I write for _Time_ _Magazine_ ,” she says matter-of-factly, and again, I’m impressed.

We’re standing quietly for a few long seconds, and the somewhat relaxed feeling that had settled in me as I’d been talking to Tiffany slowly ebbs away, and though usually I wouldn’t know why, I’m able to pinpoint it _perfectly_ now — the moment I’d uttered my surname, Evelyn Owen turned icy, and it’s very clear that, way back when, she had some kind of issue with my father. Maybe he dumped her way back when, maybe she dumped _him_ , maybe he was _cruel_ to her. I realise my jaw is clenching in what’s most certainly a visible manner and I’m looking at the floor, and so I look back up to the woman, who’s not smiling anymore, and Tiffany is finishing her drink, looking around the room again. Somewhere, somebody is crying loudly, but they’re drowned out by “Carmen” (by Lana Del Ray), and I am thinking how appropriately moody that song is, and wondering why it hasn’t been skipped on the playlist yet.

“How are Taylor and Matthew? Who’s watching them tonight?” I hear Tiffany talking about who I assume are her brothers — she always keeps a picture frame of two young boys on her desk — and I think I see PJ in the corner of the room. He’s pale and even shakier than before, but he’s laughing with someone too Elle, I think. (Or is it Rachael, or is it Camille, that French girl that relocated to P&P, maybe? It’s all unclear.) 

Tiffany and her mother are talking amongst themselves, happily distracted from my distant presence, and without much of an excuse, I finish my drink, put it down, and try to escape to the bathroom for a few minutes, and I’m almost there — passing Tiffany’s home office — when there’s a fifty-something year old man wearing a black double breasted suit by Valentino Couture, and a Burberry tie and shoes, giving me a wave and leaning on Tiffany’s desk. I don’t know him, and I’m taken aback that he seems to know me, so much so that I approach him, with the same curiosity with which Alice followed the white rabbit into Wonderland. He’s blond, too, and upon a closer glance, I recognise him from photos my father had shown me of the past, before he’d married my mother. Though he is still handsome, he was no doubt more attractive in the 80’s.

“Bateman’s kid, right?” he asks, slightly tipsy. “No, no, don’t tell me: _Christine_ , right? It’s Christine?”

I shake my head. “Cassandra. Bateman is right — do I know you?” I ask a little suspiciously, and have to assume he’s Tiffany’s father because other than Evelyn, he’s the only person here over thirty. I’m suddenly regretting not pouring myself another drink, but something stronger, before I left the conversation with the mother and daughter pair. 

“Uh...you know, now that I think about it? Probably not,” he says with a good natured laugh, and extends his hand, which I take. “Paul Owen, I knew your dad; we both did what you and Tiffany do now, you know?”

I blink. “You were a secretary?” I ask.

He stares for a few seconds, and I swear to god, I can see the cogs turning in his head as he figures out what I’m trying to tell him. Then, it seems to click, and he takes a swig of his drink to seemingly steel himself. 

“I thought that you...” Owen tries to say “investment banker,” but the words die on his lips and he trails off, a little caught up in the embarrassing moment, and I have to stop myself from smirking with some kind of vindictive satisfaction.

“It’s fine, you’re not the first one to think that.” I shake my head, dismissing it quickly, and the smile on his face — which looks almost _exactly_ like Tiffany’s — is back. “I am your daughter’s secretary.” Having to repeat this fact is really starting to annoy me, and I look back at Tiffany to make sure he knows I’m barely interested in talking to him at all. _Past his prime,_ I think, not sounding bitter, but sounding right. _What does he know? Old-fashioned idiot._

Irritatingly, he doesn’t seem at all dissuaded, but in fact quite understanding, and continues, “You know, you look a lot like Jea—”

“Want to go see her?” I cut him off, the back of my head burning, “Tiffany, you want to go see Tiffany? And get another drink, or something?”

It’s moments later, and in that time I haven’t breathed at all, and as I’m pushing through the crowd, I’m questioning why I’ve deciding to surround myself with these people; Paul Owen, who seems to know a little more about me than I’m happy with him knowing; Evelyn Owen, who I’m certain hates me; and Tiffany Owen, who, despite the fact that we are not close in any way whatsoever, is incredibly attached to me. Who are these people? Who is anyone here? I’m looking around at everyone and some of them don’t have faces, and they’re talking gibberish, I don’t think they’re even talking English? I’m standing by Tiffany’s kitchen island with the family, and Paul Owen is saying something to her, but it’s not his voice, it’s my father’s, and so I’m tuning him out. He doesn’t look at her with any poorly concealed fear or sadness, I notice, just love. Only love. I grab another drink. Someone is asking me if it’s really worth buying a premium subscription for some streaming service I’ve never heard of, and I’m looking at the sky out past bobbing heads, out the window of the apartment. There are no stars in the inky blackness.


	7. GROUP CHAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ignore the fear  
> And you'll be fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit, as always, to aspiringaspie for the editing, but also for writing PJ, Elle, and Eric's texts. Thank you very much!

Midday, and I’m sitting at a table in La Parisienne Cafe on my own. It’s now firmly summer, the beginning of July, so the owners have opened up the front of the small establishment to let the air in, and so as I’m sipping my café au lait — slightly irritated as Camille was supposed to join me, had to cancel due to greater priorities — I’m looking out over the street at a liquor store with construction beams crossing over it. I’m wearing a white t-shirt by Chiara Ferragni, a black and white checked skirt by Stradivarius, and black platform Dr Martens. The sun is relentlessly beating down, and so I slip on my Mykita sunglasses and check my phone for the time, noticing there’s a conversation going on in the work group chat. The first message I see _immediately_ makes me groan. It reads:

_Elle Halberstam_

PJ’s a slut

“ _Wow,_ ” I mutter aloud, taking another sip of my drink and watching the metaphorical sparks fly. " _Awes_ ome. Good to know.”

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

guilty as charged

_Elle Halberstam_

I hate u

I am thinking of all the things that I could be doing with my time to better myself instead of reading to this drivel — I could be going to get my nails done, I could be applying to go back into education, I could be having a look in that liquor store — but no, I’m sitting here, and I decide maybe my own involvement can at least change the subject;

_Cassandra Bateman_

I hate this chat

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

guess what guys eric’s a himbo

_Eric Hamlin_

No?

Smirking, I imagine how Hamlin reacted to that in person, and how he was probably pretty insulted by the light comment. I know he’d take it as an insult, and so I send a reply to egg PJ on;

_Cassandra Bateman_

verified

_Rachael Blaire_

Yup

_Eric Hamlin_

What is?????

I’m confused

_Patrick Bateman Jr_.

ur hot and dumb

_Eric Hamlin_

Well

Okay you got me there

I’m immediately disappointed that he didn’t even know what it meant. How old is he? And he doesn’t know what that means? I’m fairly certain he’s younger than me, but not by _that_ many years, and I’m experiencing a disturbing feeling of being detached from my own generation.

_Tiffany Owen_

I leave for 5 minutes and we're calling Eric a himbo

_Eric Hamlin_

Some of the girls in the workplace sure do make me feel like an idiot sometimes ;)

_Ugh._

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

yea he is one

also ew

_Cassandra Bateman_

Ok...

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

eric, don’t think with your dick for five minutes pls

An old woman from across the cafe glares daggers at me, because I actually laughed out loud at that. I grin back at her, showing all my teeth, until she gives up, which takes almost thirty seconds, by which time a few messages have come through;

_Eric Hamlin_

Smoooooth Patty

Oh lol that reminds me, I saw your dad

He was walking near Times Square, arguing with those uhhhh religious psychos

There's a feeling in my chest like someone is pressing down on it as hard as they can with both their hands, making it hard to breathe, but another sip of my drink clears it. 

_Patrick Bateman Jr_.

the people that give out the chick tracts??

_Elle Halberstam_

Lmao rlly?? Savage

_Cassandra Bateman_

Oh god he was???

_Eric Hamlin_

Yep, he was going off. It was amusing tbh but not in a bad way

Actually

Mayyyybe I took some video

The pressing feeling comes back, and this time it's not going away no matter what I do. My eyes are fixed to the screen, the world behind it blurring. Out of all the things for my dad to be caught doing, of course it was being a _jerk_ (even if those people _did_ have it coming).

_Cassandra Bateman_

oh god

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

HAND IT OVER

The video Hamlin sends is two minutes and fifty-six seconds. I watch it once through, with the volume off, and it’s shot mercifully from quite far away at the start, but the figure is also definitely my dad. He's cussing out some preacher with a sign strapped to him that reads “WOE TO THE INHABITERS OF THE EARTH AND OF THE SEA, FOR THE DEVIL IS COME DOWN UNTO YOU, HAVING GREAT WRATH, BECAUSE HE KNOWETH THAT HE HATH BUT A SHORT TIME REVELATION 12:12” in alarming red font, and a crowd has started to gather around them in quite a close circle. In the end, the video cuts off before there's any resolution to the argument, and throughout it I can see other people filming it too, and the camera shaking as if Hamlin's laughing. Thoroughly humiliated, I push my hair back off my forehead and stare deeply into the empty cup for a minute, only really typing a reply at all because the chat's gone totally silent.

_Cassandra Bateman_

PJ can you help me dig my grave plz

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

lmao ill jump in with you

 **[** ** _Patrick Bateman Jr._ ** **saved this video.]**

_You bastard,_ I think, tapping my fork on the table, prongs down, in a harsh beat, _You think this is all so funny, don't you?_

_Rachael Blaire_

God that takes some serious balls on his part

_Elle Halberstam_

GShshssjsh that’s ur dad?????

I'm looking at it again, and for some reason only now am I noticing the resemblance I have to him that so many people mention. It's our eyes; we've got the exact same eyes.

_Cassandra Bateman_

Yyyyyyep

_Elle Halberstam_

Never really met the infamous Patrick Bateman Sr.

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

heyyyy he’s not awful

_Cassandra Bateman_

He's not like that usually I swear

_Tiffany Owen_

Oh goodness I think I was there. I think I saw that.

If I was embarrassed before, then something about Tiffany chipping in like that absolutely mortifies me, and I'm compelled to imagine her sitting at her desk, grinning at the video, showing it to all her friends, and I'll come back to the office and everyone will be laughing about it too, and I'll have to sit there and take it. This imaginary Tiffany is pissing me off, and I try not to think of her any longer.

_Eric Hamlin_

Oh yeah!!

Saw you there lmao

And I mean hey, with the rumors about him I wouldn’t be surprised

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

the w

_Eric Hamlin_

You know, about him beating up homeless people and hookers

“Can I get you anything else, or did you want the bill?” asks the waitress, taking away my empty drink, and she speaks in a kind tone as if I'm an _idiot._

“ _No,_ you—” I realise what I'm about to say, and take a breath to compose myself, unable to meet her eyes. “I'd like the bill, please. That's all.” I'm nodding, looking at the messy dots the fork is starting to make in the wooden table, and I sense that she's looking at them too as she sighs before she leaves to get it. _You dumb bitch_ , I think, checking the group chat again. _Think you're so high and mighty think you can look at me like that I'm going to end you. I'm going to cut you up._ _I'm going to fucking end you._ I'm silently reminding myself that she is a _nobody,_ that whatever that waitress thinks of me does not matter whatsoever, as I actually read the texts that people have been sending.

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

what

where tf did you hear that?????

_Eric Hamlin_

Oh around

_Cassandra Bateman_

What?????

_Elle Halberstam_

I heard he was a suspected murderer

_Murderer, murderer, murderer._ The word is on repeat in my head, dizzying me. _A suspected murderer._ How did Elle know that, why was it coming out now? The waitress puts the bill down in front of me, and I immediately put some money down on it, well over the correct amount, and it's gone. “I'll get you some change,” the same waitress speaks with another sigh, and I just want to leave, just get out of here. Why didn't the simple bitch ever tell me, when we've been friends for so long? And then against my will my thoughts turn back to my dad ( **murderer** ) and who he could have possibly been accused of killing, and the thought crosses my mind that maybe _they actually died_. Then I'm thinking of how absolutely harmless he’s come across for my entire life, then I'm wondering if there's some things the suspected murderer hasn't been telling me.

_Tiffany Owen_

Let's try and keep this professional.

I am not relieved by this.

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

please

_Eric Hamlin_

Fine fine....

_Tiffany Owen_

Thank you

_Elle Halberstam_

Sorry.

_Tiffany Owen_

That's personal stuff and it shouldn't come up in this situation

The waitress comes back with the change and I tell her to keep it as a tip, and without looking back at her even once, I’ve stood up and I’m basically charging down the street, past run down stores and doctor’s offices and people, feeling so small in the grand scale of things, and I stop at the doors of Trinity Church. That always confused me, the sight of a church in a city this big, because it just looks so _different_ to everything surrounding it. It looks like it’s in the wrong place. I’m checking my phone again, panting.

_Eric Hamlin_

You’re right you’re right

_Elle Halberstam_

Sorry, PJ

And Cass

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

it’s okayb

lee

ELLE

I hold my eyes shut, and I want to scream and throw things and cause a general disturbance, but I can’t do that, but I want to because either there’s something wrong with me, or there’s something wrong with the world at large.

_Cassandra Bateman_

It's OK.

It’s not. _Murderer._

_Patrick Bateman Jr._

jfc

yeah it’s no big deal

I’m finding myself standing in the church without knowing quite how I walked in there. It smells old, and it’s cold, and those two combined sensations appear to give me clarity, tell me that I’m overthinking this whole thing, and I need to calm down. This whole thing could just be some kind of nasty rumor about my dad, it could be all some big misunderstanding. After all, I know he’s the least violent person I know, and if he was _truly_ a genuine suspect of murder, I very much doubt it’s true. I won’t believe it until I have evidence, I think, satisfied and much calmer, and I know exactly who will have the evidence (or lack thereof, more to the point).

_Cassandra Bateman_

Ok OK ok so I don't usually DM you but we need to talk.

_Eric Hamlin_

Oh?

_Cassandra Bateman_

How do you know that about my dad.

And the suspected murder thing.

_Eric Hamlin_

More like how don’t I know it

He never told you?

Well.... I can see why

_Cassandra Bateman_

Yes obviously he didn't.

_Eric Hamlin_

My family and their acquaintances who worked here thirty some years ago know a lot of shit

The suspected murderer thing is just the cherry on top of a crazy shitstorm of a sundae

_Cassandra Bateman_

Christ.

_Eric Hamlin_

Guess who it was for? Paul. Owen.

Guy straight up disappeared, Christmas of 1987

It’s a big topic to discuss around Christmas with my family lol they love talking about the crazy shit they did in the 80’s

_Cassandra Bateman_

I see.

Thanks for the insight.

_Eric Hamlin_

Sure thing, hon

_Cassandra Bateman_

Don't call me that.

_Eric Hamlin_

And if you want any more info

**[Link to an article: The Mysterious Disappearance of Paul Owen]**

Okay okayyyyy

_Cassandra Bateman_

Thank You.

Paul Owen. Paul Owen? I laugh out loud again, and people are staring, but I don’t even care. As grim as it feels to see that link, it’s confirmed what I wanted: Paul Owen disappeared, he didn’t die, and I saw him in the flesh, alive and well. Patrick Bateman didn’t kill him.

The thought of that cancels out any joy I’m feeling, but it cancels out the hate too. Patrick Bateman did not kill Paul Owen — what about the other people? There is nothing, and in the instant I feel the earth moving beneath me, and I think about all the people in the world like the waitress, the people who don’t matter and never will, and I consider that if they were to disappear, who would really notice? Would there even be a trace left behind? And how important does one have to get before people notice they’ve vanished?

_Murderer, murderer, murderer._


	8. THE INNOCENT FLOWER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Away, and mock the time  
> With fairest show

“Hey, what will you be wearing tonight?” PJ asks me, using a cloth to wipe down his coffee table of any dust. “I don’t want to match you, that’d be dorky.”

“Like, brand?” I ask, quirking my eyebrows. I’m not wearing anything special now: comfy dollar store leggings and an oversized vintage Disneyland sweater.

“ _Colour_ ,” he emphasises. “We both look good in black, we both always _wear_ black, and we always end up looking like the goddamn Addams family ‘cause of it.”

“All right, I’ll be in...I dunno, green?” I suggest, shrugging, then smirk as I add, “Like, _Mountain Dew_ green, really _stand out_.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Ew, _no?_ You wear black, whatever. I’ll find something, I just want to look _good_.”

Friday evening on the way out of work, PJ had stopped me and asked if I’d come around to his place the next day, seemingly in a hurry for something, though what that was, he wouldn’t say. He had told me something vague like, “We’re having drinks, I need help preparing, you’re invited,” only stayed around long enough to hear me agree to it, and just like that, he was away down the street.

He’d been doing that thing that he’s been doing for a while now — avoiding looking _right_ into my eyes — and at this very moment, on this lovely Saturday afternoon as I’m pouring in the green layer of a tray of traffic-light jello shots whilst sat cross legged in front of his TV, I realise that he’s _doing it again._ When I’d arrived at about midday, he seemed to have a more clear idea of what was happening, and quickly filled me in on the rather sudden recruitment; of course, for the company’s sake, he’s calling this a “night out for work purposes,” and thus nobody that’s been invited along is actually a client, they’re all employees. We have reservations at Ai Fiori, and then the group, which is largely composed of people I don’t know (though Elle Halberstam is coming along), is then to head back to PJ’s to have drinks. Or, as is more likely (but less polite) to say, we’re going to get absolutely wasted. I’ve been suspecting that Elle’s attendance is the reason behind PJ’s antsy mood. At the moment, he’s darting back and forth, fretting over every little thing, and right now that little thing is which way a light in the sitting room is pointing. Despite all of this, and everything that’s been going on with me, I’m in a strangely good mood.

“I don’t know, if it’s this way, then will it be pointing in people’s eyes, do you think?” he asks, shifting the lamp again, momentarily shining the light right in _my_ eyes, and I make sure to wince as obviously as possible. “Because if someone asks me to move it, I’m gonna be fucking mortified.”

“I dunno, _PB &J, _ but if gets in my eyes one more time I’m throwing these shots out the window,” I sigh, standing up with the tray, “one by one. That’s a threat _and_ a promise.” On the TV show we’re watching, some re-run of an old 80’s talk show, the host is asking a woman who’s just barely containing tears, “Now, you say you’ve got _how_ many alternate identities?” and the woman’s replying, in a childish voice, “I don’t know, _I don’t know!_ Oh, I just _don’t_ know!” before it cuts to an ad break. I step past PJ into his kitchen, and slide the tray into his fridge next to a head of lettuce.

“ _Seriously,_ Cass,” he groans, flicking the channels over until it’s some cooking show, “I want this to go well, it has to.”

“ _Seriously_ , PJ,” I imitate his tone, re-entering the room to find him sat on the sofa with his head in his hands. “It will. Come on, you’re a good h—”

It only takes a single second, but I see them before he pulls up the sleeves of his white slogan-print Moschino sweatshirt: track marks on his arm, _fresh._ I swallow dryly, wanting to pretend that nothing happened, wanting to _continue_ like I didn’t see them. He certainly wants me to pretend I didn’t, or he thinks I didn’t see, since he’s asking me something with a plastered-on smile, but my brain is buzzing with numerous thoughts. He’s doing this again? After everything he’s been through, he’s going to put his life in danger like this? The man who’s crawled his way up from a nobody at the company, to one of the most prosperous investment bankers at P&P, practically the _CEO,_ and he’s got the audacity not to revel in it? But to...shoot up heroin...like his blood’s made of the stuff...?

“PJ...” I say warningly, “show me your arms.”

“What?” He’s still smiling, but there’s a glint of anxiety in his eyes. “What do you m—”

“ _Show me your arms._ ” 

I’m standing in front of him now, arms folded, and though I’m not sure what my face looks like, it’s clearly not good and his expression falls to match it. The whole world sounds as if it’s been plunged into water. He swallows, stares out the window for a good thirty seconds, perhaps hoping that I’ll give up if he ignores me for long enough, that I’ll disappear. Unfortunately for him, I am real, and I am not going away any time soon, so with a sigh, he pulls up his sleeves, and sure enough, there are little bright red marks on his forearm, and his pupils are contracted when he looks up.

“You’re high,” I whisper, turning away, looking out over New York, at all the people who don’t matter, who have no idea what the world looks like anymore, crumbling to ash and dust. “You’re fucking _high._ ”

“Cass-...Cass, _listen_ to me” — I spot his reflection in the glass following behind me, face half-apologetic, half-angry — “I’m not _high, I’m off it,_ I’m making this next one my last one, this is my _last,_ I-I-...to get it out of my system, then I’m clean, I’m—”

“ _You said that the last time!_ ” I’m roaring now, the noise coming from so out of nowhere that it startles him _and_ myself. “ _And you know what happened last time?_ I found you lying at the foot of the sofa!” I point to the very spot, for emphasis. “You were overdosing! _You nearly died!_ And you told us you’d get clean, PJ, you—”

“ _And I didn’t!_ ” He’s raised his voice to match mine, but it’s wavering. “So _what_ ? I’m nearly _thirty,_ I-I don’t need—”

I whirl around, jabbing a finger in his chest, and he looks hurt. “You’re a fucking addict, PJ!”

He flinches as if it’s a physical blow I’ve dealt him, frowning and massaging his temples, returning to his perch on the sofa, looking utterly miserable. I’m reminded of that time I found him, years ago. I had been returning from a college class, and after a string of nonsensical texts between the two of us I’d found him, his head lolling to one side, his breathing practically absent, looking so weak and so _pale_ , on death’s door. If I hadn’t shown up when I did, he would have been six feet under, and considering that makes me grit my teeth. How had he not learned from that? From the grief he put us through, he put _me_ through? After a few quiet, heavy moments, he mutters, “Oh, oh that’s _rich,_ coming from you.”

“...what?” I’m in genuine shock, blinking back tears, and he shakes his head. “No, _what did you just say to me?”_

“You heard me.” He lifts his head, sneering. “Don’t think I don’t see how much you drink. God, you probably want to do all those shots yourself, huh?”

“You...” My mouth opens, looking for words but it looks more like I’m a fish out of water, desperately gasping for air. “You _asshole,_ that’s not the same, I’m not-...I’m not the one who’s going to _kill themselves!_ ” All the muscles in my body feel as though they’re rapidly tensing and expanding again, over and over. My fists are clenched. 

“And? And so _what?_ ” 

He’s on the offensive now, on his feet again, trying to tower over me, and I’m only thinking that he has _no_ right to be acting like this, not when he’s—

“You’re not my babysitter,” he interrupts my train of thought, “or-...it’s not your place to get all so ‘high and mighty’ about this—!”

“Do you want to _die_ , PJ?” I’m right up in his face, not sure if the words are making sense any more, slurred with rage. “You’re going to die!” _He won’t look at me._ “Do you hear me? _You’re going to die!_ ”

_“Maybe I want to!”_

I draw in a gasp automatically, hating that now’s the moment when he finally decides to look me right in the eyes. We’ve got different eyes, his are a lighter shade of brown than mine. There it is, out in the open. He wants to die. He’d like to die. If he keeps going the way he is, it’s a certainty. The corners of my vision darken. Both of our chests are heaving, and I think he might be crying.

“Better than having to put up with this...” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them, the tears streaming out in thin lines down his cheeks. “This _bullshit_ company, these _bullshit_ people...”

“Then _quit,_ get _clean,_ don’t...” It’s in this moment that I realise we’ve done this all before. Every few years, we’ve had this argument, because it’s a never ending cycle. I discover PJ’s been on it again, then he promises he’ll never do it again, that he’ll get clean from them. Then he doesn’t and I discover it again, and...you get the picture. Whatever I could say to him is futile, because this will happen until one of us dies. Until then, we’re trapped on this mad carousel, because he point blank refuses to get help. There is nothing to be done.

“... _whatever._ ” 

I find my bag, which is sat on one of his dining chairs, and sling it over my shoulder, making for the door.

He looks up, and follows me, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Cassan—”

“ _Whatever._ ” I cut him off, shrugging his hand off, staring ahead at the fire exit instructions on the wall blankly. “I’m going to go get ready. Get... _dressed_ for tonight.”   
  


Silence. 

“Bye.”

I’m in the elevator, staring at my reflection in the walls. There are tear tracks cut through my foundation, depressingly pale, and a quick once-over with a brush does very little to fix them, to my dismay. “Are you alright there, miss?” the doorman, some older man with salt-and-pepper hair, asks, and I simply nod, planning my route home. There’s a hardware store on the way back I need to stop at, or...or was it a home and kitchen store? It doesn’t matter, I’ll find what I need for tonight at either place.


	9. THE SERPENT UNDER IT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> False face must hide  
> What the false heart doth know

In the hour I have before the outing in the evening, I do the following: I head back to my apartment carrying a plastic bag from Macy’s in one, and in the other the Coccinelle handbag I had taken with me to PJ’s apartment earlier. Upon arriving home, I set both down on the marble kitchen countertop, and head off to change, a process which I complete quickly and feverishly, barely paying attention to what I’m putting on as I do, which means I’m genuinely surprised to see I look good, if somewhat unconventional for me. I’m wearing a pale, dusty pink maxi-dress by Boohoo with heels by Dune London in the same colour, and I pick out a string of pearls that must be a hand-me-down, because I have no idea where I even got them from, though their pale sheen offsets the outfit nicely. I do a very low-effort makeup job since I’m pressed for time at this point, and though I could easily arrive at Ai Fiori late with some lame excuse, it’s not like me to be late to things and I feel like I don’t want to appear too out of the ordinary. My hands are shaking as I retrieve a Fendi Vintage handbag from my closet, and return to the sitting room, transferring the contents of the old handbag I had taken to PJ’s into it, as well as the Macy’s bag, which sits comfortably and subtly in the bottom of the larger bag. After a few minutes that I spend sitting on my sofa in silence, head in my hands, I receive a notification that my ride has arrived, and head downstairs to the waiting Audi, which takes me to Ai Fiori.

The restaurant is hot and full, and once I’ve arrived at the same time as the rest of the small group, we are all seated at one of the large central tables in the dining room and poured a dark Italian wine. PJ is sat directly across from me, and has, for the most part, been ignoring my existence entirely, so I’m glad to see that the display of the middle of the table — bright pink flowers and reeds in a large fish bowl-like vase — almost entirely obscures him from view as he sits opposite me. Elle Halberstam is next to him, and she gives me a friendly wink as we sit down. (She’d complimented my dress when we walked into the place, which I find odd as the outfit she is wearing looks very similar to mine, but in a shade of vivid blue, and I don’t have a chance to successfully identify anything she’s got on before she sits down.) The rest of the table is occupied by people I have never met before and will likely never meet again — an even split of four women and four men, all dressed to equally formal heights, and I can’t focus on any of them. 

Dinner passes in a blur. The woman next to me — a pretty blonde who’s a little older than the rest of the group, wearing a pink tulle dress with glittering strawberries embroidered all over it by some up-and-coming New York based designer — has not stopped talking to me the entire time, about which nail salons we go to, asking what my skin routine is because my complexion is _so_ good, and twirling her hair around her finger so often I have to wonder if that’s how she curled her hair before she came out. I’ve been trying to talk back to her, but it’s hard hearing my own voice for a buzzing noise that’s like an insect is flying near my ears every time I try to say something, so I’m saying _anything_ (“It’s a long routine, you wouldn’t like it, your manicure is gorgeous, I don’t think I can feel empathy, isn’t that crazy?”), but she’s giggling and laughing and, I _think_ , blushing, so eventually I give up on trying to be heard at all. Clearly, it’s not too important.

We hit Act 2 of the night at PJ’s apartment, which we arrived at in a limo that I’m not even sure was meant for us, but the driver got tipped and didn’t say anything, though he did insist on shaking all of our hands as we got out, so I’m convinced he assumed we were celebrities and I quite enjoy the thought. My pleasant mood is quickly snuffed out when we arrive, however, and the conversation is incredibly dry for hours, though maybe that’s because I’m the only person who’s not drinking, something which I make a point of to PJ. Annoyingly, he’s still acting as though I don’t exist, and I’m stung by that, so I start ignoring him too. We’re both ignoring each other for those hours, never engaging in whatever subject arises, but at some time past midnight he’s seeing Elle out and I realise I’m the last person there. Immediately, I’m on my feet, as if pulled up on puppet strings. PJ, when he returns, has a deep red lipstick stain on his pale cheeks that he hasn’t noticed, and he’s clearly going through withdrawal. I can’t find it in myself to even muster up an attempt at sympathy, muttering “ _You stupid fucking junkie,_ ” but he doesn’t hear.

“ _I’m sorry,_ ” are the first words out of his mouth before he even looks at me, staring at the TV, which is currently switched to an episode of _The Bachelorette_. I turn it off, scowling, and he looks momentarily irritated before realising he’s supposed to be apologising to me. I suppose that he’s probably a little drunk, and that’s confirmed by the slightly swaying gait that he’s walking with.

“You’re...sorry?” I prompt, almost smiling. “You weren’t watching the show, anyway.”

He nods slowly, now standing close to me. “M’sorry...I’ve been...I’ve been such a shit to you...and Dad, too,” he says slowly, clearly choosing his words carefully. “I’m just...fucked. I’m fucked.”

“Sit down,” I tell him gently, indicating the sofa, and when he doesn’t move I guide him to it, which he collapses onto in a sprawled-out kind of form, in danger of falling off, and I wince, but it’s good enough so I sit down next to him and rest my head on his shoulder, my free hand resting over my handbag. “Just talk to me, PJ. Let it out.”

“I...I’m...a fucking _failure_.” His voice breaks on the word. “And-And I’ve been a real _asshole_ lately and it’s not fair on you, on _anyone_.”

“M- _hm,_ ” I nod, slipping a hand into my bag, feeling for the plastic Macy’s bag, which I find slowly since I’m trying not to make much noise as I search. “I suppose so.”

“I really do hate that place, too, hate _everyone there,_ ” he continues, the tearfulness vanishing from his voice for a spell, “all ‘I knew your dad,’ ‘You look so much like your mother,’ _all_ that shit, I know you get it too and it pisses you off, right?” I look up and he’s staring directly ahead at his reflection in his Ralph Lauren mirror, unblinking, and I see myself nod in silent agreement. “ _Hate_ that place,” he reiterates miserably.

My mind is blank. Each thought arrives slowly, and leaves before the next one arrives, and my fingers finally land on the flat side of the knife’s blade, the cool metal turning warm under them. My brother and I started working at Pierce & Pierce at the same time, even applying for the same role, and yet _he_ was the one who got it. At the time, I gritted my teeth and congratulated him, coming up for excuses as to why I didn’t, like I was too young, or I simply didn’t have the right set of skills; or he simply had a set of skills that appealed more to investment banking, whereas my career history was far more arts focused. It was over many years of watching all these people, of watching _him,_ that I came to the slow and sinking realisation that none of those excuses really applied, and that it was simply just random chance, cruel fate that my brother was picked over me. I run my fingers along the metal to the hilt. The knife is also from Macy’s, Yoshihiro Cutlery brand. PJ is four years older than me, and he had lived for four years in a world where I didn’t exist, and where I may never have existed if fate picked a different design — but it didn’t. He traded a mother for a sister, though that wasn’t his decision. If I know him, if I know the sad way he looked at pictures of her when he was a teenager and we all lived under the same roof, he’d happily go back to those four years when Cassandra did not exist. If it meant getting _her_ back, he’d sacrifice Cassandra’s existence, I’m sure. 

I’m grasping the hilt firmly, and drawing the knife out of the bag, I turn it about to make the reflected light dance about on the ceiling, thinking “ _It’s my threat display._ ” PJ isn’t moving at all.

“I’m sorry...about everything,” he says quietly, “I...I think I need a lie down.” He blinks a few times in the light, and looks at me. He doesn't notice the knife at first, so I turn it over to grab his attention. The fear in his eyes is delicious, and I grin at him. 

“Yeah. I think you do, PJ.”

And before he can run away, before he can fight me off, or call the cops, I raise the blade and plunge it into his throat, so deep that it pierces flesh on the other side. I leave the knife for a few seconds and he’s gasping in shock, and I’m fascinated by how bloodless the affair is by doing that. He attempts to stand up so I quickly put a stop to that, crawling on top of him and pulling out the blade, instantly letting a ruby red fountain spray out of the gash all over me in a violent arc like a sprinkler, staining my clothes red. PJ twitches, still alive but losing it as rapidly as he’s losing his blood, so I go in for it again, and again, and again, in his chest and in his neck again and then through his eyes a few times and then through his head, and after a few swings he starts looking like dad, and I can taste copper in my mouth, and I plunge the knife into his chest one more time and then finally slot it back into the first wound I make in his neck. He’s still bleeding, but it’s no longer a spray.

Breathing heavily, I step off him, and cross the floor to his mirror, leaving thin bloody trails on the floor. I’m almost entirely covered in blood, stained completely red except for my eyes, shining like diamonds set in the eyes of a statue. I’m thinking how it’s a good thing I didn’t really like the dress, and how familiar, how _correct_ being completely drenched in blood looks on me. 

I look back, and PJ’s body is still twitching. I smile, and a tear runs down my face. It’s followed by more, and they’re hot, cutting tracks through the blood, but I’m still smiling. Smiling at my brother’s mangled corpse. Killing him felt good.

  
It felt _real fucking good_.


	10. AFTERMATH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's just the same  
> As anyone I know  
> He scares me so

I woke up in the morning to a call from my father at 5:34 AM after having received seventeen voicemails, all in the same frightened, panicked tone—

_[Missed Call At 5:30 AM]_

_“Cass. Baby. Please pick up. He’s gone. Oh my god. We can’t find him, he won’t answer my calls. You were at the party with him, right? Oh my god. Oh fuck oh fuck...”_

Patrick Bateman Jr. died quickly and was unrecognisable by the time he expired, having had both of his eyes stabbed out, and with fifteen stab wounds aside from those two, though I may have miscounted where two knife wounds landed in roughly the same place, so I’m still uncertain. It took him a surprisingly short amount of time to stop bleeding, though I wasn’t timing it or anything. 

_[Missed Call At 5:31 AM]_

_“Cassandra. Please. I need to know you’re okay. Cass, please pick up, please.”_

I took most of the time I had in the evening cleaning up with hydrogen peroxide, then I replaced the cushions on his sofa with spares that were in his closet, and counted my blessings that not a drop had managed to spill on the wall. After burning the cushions that I had replaced, along with the clothes I had been wearing (though I saved the pearls), I scrubbed myself clean of the blood on my body in his shower, until there was not a spot left. After that, it was simply a case of removing PJ’s body from the scene, and from existence.

_[Missed Call At 5:32 AM]_

_“Is he back on drugs? Oh fuck, what if he...Cass, please. Please pick up.”_

I burned his corpse.

_[Missed Call At 5:33 AM]_

_“I need to know you’re okay. I can’t lose...I can’t...Cass, baby girl, please, oh fuck...”_

After cleaning up the scene of the crime, I ensured that everything had been left as it was when Elle left, because I knew she’d be questioned once the news of PJ’s disappearance broke, and though I knew I’d also end up being questioned, my story could wait. I headed home and spared no time in collapsing into bed. 

Back in the present, to the phone call that woke me up, I’m staring blearily at the screen as I listen back to the messages, feeling nothing. After I watch another call ring out, I decide that _I’ll_ call _him._

“Hello?” I ask, rubbing my eyes, the single hour of sleep I got having done me no good whatsoever, and I’m hoping that the investigation doesn’t start right now, in case I slip up.

“Oh my god, _Cass_ , are you okay?” My dad is speaking quickly, tripping over his words, and sounds as though he either has been crying, or _is_ crying. “Where are you?”

"At my apartment, I’m fine.” I slowly sit up in bed, blinking in the ray of sunlight that peeks through the shutters of my room, and add cautiously, “ _Why?_ What’s going on?"

_“PJ’s gone.”_ It takes a while for him to say it, and when he does, the words hang in the air for a heavy few seconds; I hear him whimper, _“_ Uncle Tim spoke with him last and...oh _fuck...”_

His voice breaks pitifully on the last word. It takes me a few moments to formulate a reply. Of course I’m not surprised by this statement, it’s been news to me for hours — I’m the reason he’s gone — but even still, I’ve realised now that as far as _he_ knows, I have no idea what happened to PJ. As far as _he_ knows, we were getting along just fine.

“Wh-... _gone?”_ The words clumsily fall out of my mouth, but I can’t stop myself now, and I’m now worried that I don’t sound worried _enough_ . “Dad, what do you mean _gone?”_

“Gone.” He almost sounds angry, but over the phone, everything’s pretty unclear, and as he rambles on I’m sure he might have put the phone down, as his voice fades in and out of audible range. “After the party, I...he wouldn’t answer my _calls_. He left a message for Tim that was...and-and that girl he likes...Elle? She can’t get to him either. She said he never came to her apartment.”

My blood runs cold — PJ was supposed to _meet Elle_ ? How could I have accounted for that if I didn’t know until _now?_

“He was going-going to stay with her for the night and he never _did_. She tried getting to _you”_ — sure enough, there are a few missed calls and texts from the woman in question — “but that didn’t work so she called _me_ and that’s how I found _out_ and…” 

And he trails off. I suppose he expects me to say something here, but any words I might have had planned completely vanish from my mind, and the silence that’s there instead is _choking_. 

Eventually, after a minute (but maybe it had been _hours_ ), he continues, almost whispering, “And I thought that you left too, a-and Cass, what if this is like the _car crash-_...?” 

He takes in a sharp breath. 

“Oh fuck, _fuck_...”

I’m silent again, because what is there to say? At this point, I feel like an absolute moron because I feel _caught_ already, thinking that maybe he already knows what I did, maybe he’s just _testing me?_ Then words come to me automatically, without my input. 

“Fuck, u-uh...I-I’ll get ready, I’ll come over, _shit..._ just-just try and stay _calm_ , Dad.” 

_Stay calm, Cass_ , I remind myself silently, _Stay calm._

“Okay...yeah.” 

In a way, he sounds relieved at that, I imagine him nodding, and he sounds close enough to the phone to hear properly again. “Yeah. I’m just relieved that you’re okay. I’ll be here waiting, sweetheart. I-I...I love you.”

I can’t say that with a clear conscience. I can’t lie. But I have to. 

“...I love you too. Shouldn’t be longer than an hour. Bye.”

At 6:43 AM, I finally draw close to the family home on Long Island where I grew up. I’m staring ahead at the road, the shakiness of an adrenaline high that only kicked in the instant where I killed him kicking _back_ in as I finally try to get my story straight in my head. I repeat it, again and again. PJ and I were the last two people in the apartment. At some point, I had fallen asleep, and woken up again in the early hours of the morning. I had assumed that he had gone to bed too, since he was nowhere to be seen in the lounge, and so I quietly let myself out and went home to bed. That’s what I’ll be telling him, anyway, but the more I think about this, the more the details seem to slip. What time did I fall asleep? What time did Elle expect to see PJ, and how does that limit how much time the fake Cassandra had to do what she did? What time did I get home? It’s all unclear, but I have my story that, contradictions be damned, I will stick with. If I can get away with changing it to fit into the story everyone believes, I’ll do it. This isn’t _hard_. It’s just acting. Improvisation.

I’m outside the house now, and within seconds of knocking on the door, I hear frantic footsteps on the other side. In the blink of an eye, the door swings open, and reveals only my dad in the doorway, dressed as though he had gotten out of bed moments ago and hadn’t seen getting dressed as something particularly worthwhile. The moment he realises it’s me, or perhaps even moments before, he pulls me into a tight embrace, and for a second I can’t breathe, but it isn’t because of the hug.

For a second, at first glance, he looks just like PJ.

“Cassie, baby, oh my God. Oh fuck..” The old man still sounds on the point of tears, stroking the back of my head. “Oh, you’re _okay..._ oh, God, sweetheart...”

The sound of his voice is what snaps me out of my shaken state at the sight of him, and that’s exactly what I need, so in a way I’m quite thankful. “Dad, Dad...I-I came here,” I swallow dryly, “as fast as I could...”

“I know. I know.” He pulls back and kisses my forehead. His hands are trembling. It looks like the mere sight of me may _actually_ bring him to tears. “C-Come inside, Cass. Relax, u-uh...I know it’s early — Christ, it’s almost fuckin’ _7:00_ — y-you can get some more sleep in my bed if-if you want...”

I blink, and nod, swallowing my anxiety again. I am exhausted, but I don’t think I can bring myself to sleep again. “I’m good,” I say quietly, looking up at him, studying his face. “You look like _you_ need it.”

In response, he shakes his head and steps aside to let me in, which I oblige, something instinctual telling me that he couldn’t possibly sleep either. “No. No I-I’m...” He falls silent, closing the door. His hands are trembling, and he’s rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, staring off into nothing. “ _Fine_. I’m fine. Is there...anything you need?” He walks past me, avoiding eye contact, into the open plan kitchen and lounge. “Do-Do you want something to drink?”

I follow behind him, head hung. “No, no, I’m fine, I-...” I sigh, and take a seat on his sofa, attempting to calm my shaking by clutching my wrist, and in doing that I discover a spot of blood on my hand that I had somehow missed, and hastily scrub off before he notices it. “I just...this is all...” I sigh again, raising my head. “So _much_.” 

I hear him go to the fridge and open it, take something out and then close it again.

“Yeah. _Yeah._ Yeah,” he repeats, and I look back to see that he’s trying to open a bottle of water, but his hands are trembling so hard that he can’t unscrew the cap, and he’s blinking rapidly. “I-I called the cops, a-and they’re gonna look for him. I think.” 

Quickly, he gives up on the task of opening the bottle, and leans against the counter, running his hands down along his face. Turning back around, my face sets into a frown, and I head over to his side, easily unscrewing the cap of the bottle and handing it to him. “They’ll find him, Dad,” I say gently, but quietly. “They work fast.”

He shakes his head. “What if we’re too late this time, Cass?” Tears creep out of the corners of his eyes, and he seems to force himself to take a sip from the bottle, somehow managing to spill some on himself, prompting him to murmur a curse and cap it, setting it down. “I should’ve said...” Something in his eyes changes, looking out across the room. His lips almost imperceptibly move in some kind of private conversation that I doubt I’ll be privy to, and ends quickly, because he gives up on finishing the thought, becoming aware of my presence again. “Oh fuck, Cass, you don’t need to see your own fucking _dad_ like this...”

I almost burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. They won’t find PJ, I know full well they won’t find PJ, and I’m lying through my damn teeth to him. _Good,_ I think, placing my hand in his and giving it a squeeze. _Good, he deserves this._

“Talk to me, Dad.” I try to sound as soothing as I can, resisting the urge to vindictively grin at him. “What were you going to say?”

Thankfully, my ploy seems to work, and I can see him visibly start to relax. “PJ and I, we...we had a _fight_ before the party.” I raise my eyebrows, but ensure I express no more surprise than that. “Said some things we shouldn’t’ve.” His hands come together, wringing, letting go of mine. “It wasn’t...shit, what if this is all _my_ fault?” He looks up at me, frightened, as if I know what he’s talking about. “Fuck, I-...I can’t have _that_ be the last thing I told him Cass, I-I didn’t _mean_ it—”

“Dad, what did you _tell_ him?” I ask firmly, swiping another spot of blood off my hand. This, combined with his shaky nature, is starting to stir something in me that’s close to anger, but maybe also simply frustration?

“I didn’t _mean it_ , please understand I didn’t, I...it just came _out,_ ” he insists, patting his hands on the counter island, drumming his fingers, and chokes out the next words: “I told him...I-I wish I’d never _had him_...” 

He hangs his head, ashamed of himself.

“I took care of that one for you Dad. It’s as if you never had him at all,” I think, or did I say it out loud, enunciating clearly, looking him in eyes? Either way, he doesn’t seem to hear me, and I look away sighing, the only sound in the apartment for a while being the hum of various idle electronics. “If...it makes you feel any better,” I say, disappointed that I’ve been ignored, “he didn’t mention it to me at _all._ ”

“Still, it’s-it’s...you know him, Cass. He doesn’t like talking about his problems, he...” He reaches for the bottle of water again. We’re likely both thinking about the same thing: his behavior at the gathering we had for my birthday. I’m counting my blessings at the convenient timing of PJ acting like that. “He’s been bottling things up. He wouldn’t fucking talk, and- and...Cass.” His tone shifts to a more serious, more sure one, “Is it...is it the drugs again?”

My fist clenches involuntarily. I decide to slip him a hint of the truth, for credibility, “I...suspected it, and...and yeah, in the afternoon, I was helping him get ready, and I saw...” I stop as if I’m too upset to continue, waiting for him to put his hand around my shoulder before I continue, which he does. “There were track marks on his arms...fresh ones.” 

I bow my head and begin to cry, even if it’s forced, and I doubt I can keep it up for too long. Regardless of how real it is, it works, and he’s rubbing my back, and muttering about how he’s so sorry, how I shouldn’t have to deal with this. As this is happening, I’m thinking about if there was any evidence I left behind, how I should act when people at work ask me about it, if I should ask Elle myself about what happened to her that night so my story can corroborate hers and vice versa. Then, I feel breathing on my neck, and another arm slips over my shoulder from the other side. My tears dry up immediately, and I freeze.

“Cass?” my dad asks, noticing this.

_“Cass?”_ asks PJ, his voice sounding as though he’s sitting in a cave, echoing against the walls of the room in a horrible cacophony. 

I squeeze my eyes shut, and then open them again, and feel the weight of one of the arms on my back lifts. I open them, look to my side, and momentarily startle. It _is_ PJ. He has...all of the wounds I left him with, that indefinable number of stabs, gory and dripping blood. I can do nothing but stare into his eyes — or what little remains of them — unblinking. 

“I-It’s...” My mouth has gone dry, sweat beginning to bead on my forehead, my own name reverberating in my head, rattling around and it _hurts._ “N-No, I need-I need to-to _lie down._ ” I step away from my dad, and despairingly look back at him, just so I don’t have to look at PJ. He looks afraid. He can’t see PJ. Is this what a panic attack feels like? I squeeze my eyes shut again.

“Cass...?” He asks cautiously, taking a step towards me, “I’ll take you to the bedroom okay? I’m here—”

_“I’m here,”_ PJ speaks simultaneously with him now. I open my eyes and he is closer than he was before, an inch away from my face.

It’s undignified, but I yelp, falling back into my dad’s arms. 

“ _No!_ No, no no, get-get away from-from me...” I can’t help it, my knees give out and I slowly collapse to the floor, placing both my hands over my mouth for fear I’ll say something incriminating, and not be able to stop myself, then mumble, “I just...I-I need some-some space…”

I can see my dad kneel next to me, and when I finally see him enter my vision, he’s looking at PJ, uncomprehending the situation, but trying to comfort me nonetheless. “Okay...” He sounds quiet, still cautious, giving me the space I asked for. “I’m right here, Cassie, just...just breathe.”

_“Enjoying yourself?”_ my brother asks. Then he’s gone.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I had been holding. “ _Fuck..._ ”

“Cass, are you...?” I hear my dad say, but he sounds as though he’s speaking from the next room over.

“I’m...” I take in a deep, slow, shuddering breath, hold it for a few seconds, release it, and feel a touch calmer. “Sorry...”

“No. No, _no_ , no. Don’t be sorry.” He takes both my hands and guides me to my feet, something I’m almost thankful for because I’m not sure I’d ever get back up without the help. “Do you need anything?” He tilts his head to one side, and I avoid his eyes. “You look so _tired,_ sweetheart…”

That’s a good out he’s giving me. I think I’ll take the opportunity. “Sleep,” I say, finally plucking up the courage to actually look at him, but even then my eyes are flicking between his face and the floor, feeling as though if I look up into his eyes for too long, he might see the truth, the _whole_ truth. “I need to sleep.”

He nods, gesturing to the hall. He looks at me, and for a moment, there’s something that changes in his expression. It’s something akin to fear, but seems to be an _expected_ fear, like something he’s expected but didn’t want has finally come to pass. I doubt I’ll ever know what it is. 

“You know...where my bedroom is. Please rest, Cassie. You need it.” Suddenly anxious looking, he reaches a shaky hand forward, resting it on my shoulder, and kisses my forehead. “I’ll be here when you get up.”

  
Immediately, too quickly, I turn my head away and shrug his hand off my shoulder. Without a word, I’m gone. Down the hallway. PJ is dead. I should feel _satisfied,_ or something, _anything_. Why do I just feel...nothing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, editing credits to aspiringaspie, but also for writing Patrick!


	11. TMPL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, boy  
> Stop talkin’  
> Like you got me

I’m typing up an email to be sent around the company notifying employees of a newly-opened temporary position, sipping from a mug of cheap coffee, some musical about a serial killer that was on Broadway a few years ago playing softly through my earbuds. Today, I’m wearing a new lace dress from Self-Portrait, which has given me an unexpected boost in confidence due to the way it looks on me.

This morning, Elle Halberstam caught up with me, asking me about how the investigation into PJ’s disappearance was going, seemingly unbothered by the whole affair, although I did observe she seemed unusually quiet. Like myself, Elle had been interviewed by the police about her side of the story, and like me, she was not considered a suspect by them. “In fact,” she told me in confidence, “though they’re not ruling out foul play, they told me they’re hesitant to call it a death.” When I was interviewed, they told me no such thing, so I imagine she’s lying to make me feel better, or perhaps to make herself feel better about the whole thing; After all, I know how she felt about him, and can only imagine what she’s going through, or how hard it’s been on her, or  _ blah, blah, blah, _ some bullshit like that, that people have been telling me, pretending to care. Not that I particularly care what people have been saying, as I’m just happy to have finally washed my hands of the whole thing.

As I type the words ’kind regards’ at the end of the email, Tiffany walks past my desk, smiles at me and then proceeds into her office, returning a few seconds later with a concerned look on her face.

“Cassie? Can I call you C- doesn’t matter.” She approaches my desk, brows furrowed in concern. “You didn’t have to come in today, what with...” She trails off awkwardly. “Everything...going on...”

I shrug. “Well, yeah, but I figured it’d help me get my mind off of things, you know?” I look up at her and hit  _ send _ on the email simultaneously. “If you don’t smile, you’ll cry, right?”

She smiles a little sadly, and I honestly feel guilty for that, but nods all the same. “Yeah, yeah, I get’cha.”

Tiffany looks as though she’s about to go back into her office to get back to work, but after a few seconds of very obvious deliberation in her doorway, she lingers, and asks, running her hands around the bottom hem of her navy Comme des Garçons striped suit jacket. “How is...the investigation going?"

“...slow,” I say after a long pause, making her wait. “They’re not telling us much, of course, but I think they’re struggling to find any leads.”

“Oh, I’m...I’m sorry to hear that,” she frowns genuinely. “You probably get that a lot, though, right?” I nod in response. “It’s just...it’s  _ crazy,  _ how someone can just vanish into thin air like that...”

“Yeah.” 

My eyes meet the floor for a few moments, and in that moment I feel more on the spot and under pressure than when the police officer interviewed me a few days ago. I’m thinking back to how my dad looked when I finally left to go back to my apartment. I’m thinking back to seeing my uncles arrive at JFK International Airport, and seeing how they were holding hands with each other and their son, and how Uncle Luis was on the brink of tears even before he noticed I was there. I’m thinking back to all the pitiful glances I received from everyone who “knew what I was going through,” who were imagining the turmoil that was going on beneath my quiet exterior because to them, that was so much easier to imagine than the sheer emptiness that was really there. 

“I mean, every cloud, I guess, it’s brought us all together as a family,” I admit, a smile finding its way onto my face.

She nods, and smiles awkwardly in what I imagine is an imitation of mine. “That’s nice.” I can see her deliberate if she should say something, before finally deciding on it, and shyly adding, “And...uhm, I was wondering if...”

I put my finger up for a second, correct a spelling error on another email I’m typing, and then look back up at her and grin. “Sorry, what was that?” 

She gives a little breathy half-laugh, and presses on, “Well, I-...I go to TMPL Gym on Saturdays, or- or I  _ should  _ be going, anyway.” Another nervous laugh. “And I was wondering if you wanted to come along?”

I actually start paying attention at this point. I’ve not exactly been ignorant to the fact that Tiffany longs to spend time around me, not when she asks me things like this so much, like if I’d like to join her for lunch, or if I wanted to go for a walk, or something inconspicuous like that. All completely innocent attempts to be around me, and time after time, I’ve always rejected it; after all, I relish the fact that she knows very little about me as a person, that I’m just her secretary and nothing else. Then, I think about how her parents seemed to already know me, and there’s something about the way she asks this time, with her cheeks flushed a little pink and her eyes having trouble meeting mine, that makes me want to tell her yes. What do I have to lose, really?

“Sure.”

I blink and miss the rest of the week. Before I know it, it’s 6:00 AM and I’m at TMPL Gym on West 49th street, dressed in a navy and black two-piece sportswear ensemble by New Balance, watching Tiffany arrive. Her blonde waves are tied up in a red velvet scrunchie, and she’s wearing a Burberry sports bra, and black Ralph Lauren leggings and a pair of Tommy Hilfiger sneakers, and though it’s an ensemble that’s entirely inappropriate for a workout, more form over function, there is no denying that she does look great. 

“Cass, hey!” She practically bounces up to me she’s so excited, a water bottle in one hand. “Are you-? Did you curl your hair?”

“No.” I grin at her, remembering how she’s never actually seen me outside of the office, and vice versa. “I just didn’t try to tame it today.”

Though TMPL is not my usual gym, I had been planning to go through my usual workout routine; First I hit the elliptical, before which I warm up for three minutes, then start a series of intervals, getting longer and then shorter between my recovery times, working at a nine on the ten point scale. After that, it’s either running the treadmill or stationary bike, but someone’s always hogging the treadmill machines and I don’t like to wait around, so I usually go for the latter, and stay on it for about an hour, again moderating resistance as I go. After that, I hit the free-weights, though they’re not really a priority. I would be heading straight into this routine, but I’m acutely aware that Tiffany is, in fact, a beginner at the gym and I essentially am taking the role of her personal trainer, so I decide to guide her through something a tad easier. That being said, she’s looking nervous and a few people have given her funny looks, which I don’t doubt is because she’s overweight and this place is full of tryhard gym-rats, and that fills me with a strange desire to make sure that, by the time she leaves this place, not one person looks at her like that anymore. 

Together, we go through an exercise routine that, though it’s not as intense as my ordinary one, is still quite challenging, and I’m pleased (and vindicated) that Tiffany not only keeps up with my pace, but excels me. I’m standing by her as she runs on the treadmill, and though at first I had committed strictly to talk about the routine, eventually we strayed into casual conversation, and we’re on the subject of some Australian vlogger who scammed his fans with low-quality merch when I see Eric Hamlin from across the room, and curse myself for catching his eye because before I know it, he’s abandoned whatever workout he was doing and has joined the conversation, an arm affectionately slung around my shoulder which I decide not to shake off.

“So, you ladies come here often?” he says in a mock-seductive tone, and immediately drops it in favour of a rather boyish laugh that’s almost endearing.

Tiffany rolls her eyes and shakes her head, slowing down the treadmill a little, though she’s still panting a little bit from the exertion. “Ugh, shut  _ up _ .” She pulls her airpod out — she was only wearing one so she could talk to me and listen to music simultaneously — and leans against the handle on the treadmill, smiling a little, still walking on it. “Shut  _ up!  _ You’re so  _ stupid. _ ”

“Yeah, well, some of the girls here sure do make me feel stupid.” Eric, if i’m not mistaken, actually  _ winks  _ at me.

It’s my turn to roll my eyes. “You’ve used that line before.” I give a slight pause for emphasis, “Several. Times. And it’s literally never been good.” And though I’m not sure what reaction I’m expecting, the fact that both of them laugh is vaguely disappointing to me.

“Well, anyway, I was about to head out.” He takes a few steps away, backwards, back to whatever group he was hanging out with before. “Don’t you go stealing my girl, all right, Tiff?”

Tiffany’s smile falls, and I was never wearing one to begin with. Apparently, I had fooled myself into thinking that the whole “pretending to be his girlfriend” thing was really the truth, and that it was something he’d drop entirely as soon as he was away from his dad, which was  _ always.  _ Then, I’m wondering if he really ever did say that, or perhaps he asked me out at some point and, unthinkingly, I said yes? After all, there’s a good few days that have gone by not just this week, but for the past few months, that I admit to not remembering whatsoever. Is it really just that simple? But why would I forget something that had so much gravity?

“So...” She picks the speed back up on the treadmill, seemingly trying to ignore how I’ve been staring after the man for about a minute. “You and Eric are a thing?”

“Uh...yes.” I don’t know why I say it. The words come out of my mouth before I can think about them, and now that they have, I feel committed to them. After all, maybe I’ll end up convincing myself I do like him; he’s really not all that bad. Cold sweat is beading on my forehead. He’s got a lot of push in the company, he’s still quite young, he has a lot of money and a good body — why  _ not _ end up with him? My chest hurts. Maybe I’ll marry him some day, maybe things would be easier for me that way. I don’t think I can breathe quite right anymore. 

“Yes we are,” I confirm, and the second I do, I catch myself going pale in the long mirrors on the wall, and feel violently nauseated. Tiffany notices, and looks over, concerned, stopping the treadmill.

“I’m...I’m gonna head out.” I force a smile, and check the time on my phone, but there’s a text from someone who I think is Eric inviting me on a date, and so I shudder and immediately lock it again, looking back up at Tiffany. “You okay to find your own way home?”

“Yeah, uh...” She looks sad, and I hate how her face looks when she’s like that, it’s not as pretty. “Are you...okay, Cass?”

“I’m...” I back away a few steps, and then shrug, and give her an unsure thumbs-up. “Walkin’ on sunshine, Tiffany. Got a date.”

I am struck with the thought that Hell’s Kitchen has never been more appropriately named because the heat hits me as if I’d stepped out of the gym and right into an oven, on the way passing Noah Letts from P&P, who compliments how I look and I bare my teeth at him. Evaporating rain rises from the pavements in thin, wispy strands of smoke like spider silk. My pace starts slow, but soon I’m picking up the pace to a jog and then I’m running. Not an elegant run like on the treadmill, but a run of necessity, like a mouse being chased down by a cat — uncoordinated and messy. I’m stumbling into people and panting, and in one of the passing stores I hear what seems to be playing the same phrase of “Uptown Girl” over and over:  _ She’s getting tired of her high-class toys, and all her presents from her uptown boys.  _ Something, or someone, must be pursuing me, but every time I glance over my shoulder, there’s nothing, and just as I’m wondering why I’m even still running, I stumble into a building, and up to the counter. There’s a painting that looks like warped, pastel-coloured razor blades on a black background on the wall.

“A spiced rum,” I order, putting some indistinct amount of money down on the counter along with a coupon for a nail salon that isn’t open anymore, breathing heavily, “Jamaica Cove. You know. Or  _ something  _ like that.”

The man behind the counter — late thirties, the very picture of some shitty hipster from a few years ago, man-bun and all — studies the money for a few seconds, holds it up to the light, and then seemingly satisfied with that, looks at me again, expectant and mildly intimidated.

“You  _ heard  _ me,” I insist, leaning on the counter with both my hands pressed onto it, rocking on the balls of my feet.

“I...” He laughs nervously, and visibly puts on his best “customer service” face. “I didn’t. What was that...?”

Shaking my head, muttering curses, I scan the menu and pick the first thing that jumps out at me, though it takes a while to discern everything because it’s all handwritten in chalk and squashed together. “Iced latte,” I finally say, wiping my forehead on the back of my hand, “an iced...latte,” and then, as he gives me my change (noticeably without returning the coupon) and heads to the back of the cafe to fix my drink, “I’m having a  _ bad  _ fucking day.”

“Aren’t we all?” says some middle-aged woman in a too low-cut black tank top, sat at one of the tables in the tiny establishment and typing on a Macbook, but I ignore her completely.

I’m standing outside the Museum of Arts and Design and the iced latte is finished — I suspect I may have spilled some on myself — and I’m breathing heavily through my nose, staring up at the building, imagining the glass windows shattering outwards as if a million guns simultaneously fired next to each one in a deafening bang. The shrapnel shards clatter to the earth like rainfall, some shattering harmlessly on the concrete, though most of it hits passerbys. Maybe, just maybe, someone dies, impaled on a glass shard, like their own beautiful piece of modern art, the blood an exquisite crimson on the pavement. The thought of this may have once disgusted me, may have made me afraid of my own mind, but I am no longer afraid — the thought stirs giddy excitement in me. Gives me ideas,  _ inspiration. _

“Hey, you doin’ alright?” someone asks. He’s young, the picture of a freshly-graduated Wall Street upstart, probably from Harvard, and he’s looking up at the building with me with big, innocent eyes. His hair is dirty blond, he’s wearing a polo shirt, jeans, and shoes, all by Emporio Armani. “Pretty cool place.” He indicates the building. “You been?”

“Listen to me,” I say, looking directly at him, enunciating clearly, even though he is not looking at me, but up at the museum, “are you listening? I will hurt you. Not just you, first I will sniff out everyone you love, and one by one I will snuff out their lives, and the last thing they hear will be my soft whispers in their ears and the last thing they feel will be my hand caressing their cheek as I watch the life drain from their eyes. Then, I will find you, I will track you down and your death will be a work of art, my darling. You will be the most beautiful you have ever looked when you are in your death throes because I will gut you. You’ll go to that museum, dear, you’ll fit right in, art students will write essays on the subtle shade of blue your skin has gone, the swirling brushstrokes of ichor like leaping flames up your torso, and the symbolism of those choices. My magnum opus.  _ Memento mori,  _ my love.  _ Memento mori.” _

He finally looks at me, and his eyes sparkle. He looks me up and down. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Oh,” I nod, and pause for a few minutes, at some point crushing the plastic cup in my fist, stabbing my palm. No blood is drawn, “I’m fine, Eric.”


	12. THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF PAUL OWEN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world is at your window  
> You want to fly away

**_The Mysterious Disappearance of Paul Owen_ **

**_Aisling McAllister_ **

**_Last Updated_ ** **_November 8, 2005, 11:50 PM_ **

_Often romanticised, New York City in the 1980s was known for being one thing: a contradiction. A hellish paradise. A place where the successful, rich, young, elite thrived whilst outside the glamorous bars, clubs, and restaurants, the homeless starved out in the cold. A city of light, with the skyscrapers that cast long, dark shadows. In ways, that still has not changed, but there was a difference back then — no one cared about it. It was every man for himself, and perhaps that is the cause of this unexplained incident._

“Is it just me, or is anyone pissed off about OZY fest being cancelled?” asks Bradley Conrad, lazily pushing a stirrer around in his drink, a gin and lemonade. “I got the VIP tickets and everything. _I’m_ pissed. Is it just me?”

“Uh...no?” Elle Halberstam raises a quizzical eyebrow, momentarily distracted from people-watching at the bar we’re at — _Flares_ , a glitzy 1970s themed joint that seemingly appeared out of nowhere — and adjusts her shocking pink prescription Juicy Couture glasses. “No, I’m really not. Would’ve been hell out there in the heatwave.” As if to accentuate this point, she fans herself with a napkin, but it just sadly flops about and she drops it on the table, frowning.

“It got cancelled?!” Bonnie Hendricks, who is Conrad’s girlfriend, shrieks, looking up from her drink. “Shit, _shit,_ I didn’t even know I’d missed it! Or-Or I was _going_ to miss it, I...” She nibbles at her bottom lip for a few seconds, and then nudges me in the side, asking, “Who was going to be there? Cass, you’re on your phone, look up-look up who was-...oh, _shit,_ if I missed seeing Nicki, o-or, like, fuck...Cass, who was there? Oh, I’m going to _scream_ if I missed someone good, Cass—”

“You’re already screaming, Bon Bon,” I remind her, not looking up from my screen.

_Just shy of twenty years ago, a young, successful Wall Street investment banker by the name of Paul Owen completely vanished off of the map. One day, he was there, partying, earning his way, and quickly ascending the ladder in his company. The next, he was gone._

“Nobody good, really.” Conrad sits back in the vinyl chair, giving a very laboured sigh over Bonnie’s babbling. “Just would have liked to, you know, have actually _done_ something. Those tickets were, what, $400? And I mean, that’s affordable, but it’s pretty expensive for a _cancelled_ fest.” He pouts boyishly, finishes his drink, and looks up. “My refund hasn’t even gone in yet.”

_According to NYPD records, it was the night of June the 24th when Paul Owen was last seen in the city. It was a regular night for the man: a day at work, meeting with clients and co-workers, and then, after work, having a meal out with a friend. All seemed normal, until a strange turn of events occurred. The man had, as you, the reader, may have already guessed, was gone from the city. Nobody could seem to pin down where he went, the only evidence left behind being a message on his answering machine claiming he had gone to London, and a few items missing from his apartment, such as toiletries and clothes, as well as some luggage. To any outside observer, it would be easy to assume that Paul really had gone on an impromptu vacation to London. The only problem was that something like this was incredibly out of character for the reportedly well-connected man._

_Meredith Powell, assumed to be Owen’s girlfriend at the time, was the most concerned party in events, citing that the trip to London was something that he had previously mentioned before, and emphasised that “Paul was an open book. There was nothing he knew, or was doing, that I didn’t know, or do with him” (Meredith Powell, C. 1997). Shortly following his disappearance, Powell hired the services of a Private Investigator, one Detective Donald Kimball, who led the investigation into the disappearance in conjunction with the NYPD._

Bonnie, seeing I’m not giving into her continued demands, huffs and folds her arms, mumbling something about lesbians and giving Conrad a look that screams “Why didn’t you stick up for me?” and for a moment I’m almost relieved that I’m not in a relationship, before remembering that I am. My boyfriend’s across the bar chatting with Rachael Blaire, but even that’s too close, and I have my head bent low so as to avoid eye contact. Really, my thoughts aren’t on him, but on the article he sent me. It’s on a true crime site that I actually frequent, but hadn’t looked back this far, and searching the keyword “Bateman” had previously turned up no results, which I’m now putting down to a non functioning search function (an oxymoron if there ever was one). I take a sip of my rum, admire the Pandora leather bolo bracelet Elle got me when I turned twenty-five (which has a cute, pink and silver suitcase as its only charm), before turning my eyes back to the article. Please, continue, Miss McAllister, what did Detective Kimball get up to?

_The preliminary investigation, which mostly consisted of building a character study for Owen, was largely conducted at Pierce & Pierce, the investment bank at which Owen worked. Though Kimball has, on record, stated that he never thought the disappearance to be related to death, he couldn’t in good conscience rule the possibility out, and acknowledged that if there was any reason behind Paul Owen’s “death,” the most likely one was a co-worker that was jealous of his success. Due to this, Kimball conducted several interviews around the office to build this portfolio, as well as gather potential suspects, though none proved fruitful except for one man, by the name of Patrick Bateman. _

My throat closes up. I stare at the name for a few minutes until my screen goes dark and becomes a mirror. I look great: my hair is done up in an artfully messy bun, and my makeup is not extravagant, but pretty all the same. There’s a cover of “Oh No!” by MARINA playing in Flares. It’s hot. This morning, a play that was a retelling of _Alice in Wonderland_ opened in a theatre near my apartment, and I actually met the actress playing the lead role; she was rude to me. My dress, which is lace, dark green, and off the shoulder, is by Girls on Film.

“John Legend was gonna be there.” Elle sounds bored, and has resumed people-watching, though there’s also a good chance she’s looking for someone else to hang out with so she can ditch us. “So that’s pretty cool.”

“John Legend is Jesus,” I say quietly, thoughtfully, and then correct myself, a little louder, “John Legend played Jesus in a production of _Jesus Christ Superstar_ in 2018.” And I’m reminded of that crucifixion idea I had a while back, and how it was a pretty good one, and I’m staring at Elle. She doesn’t notice.

Conrad rolls his eyes. “I didn’t wanna go there for the _singing,_ I was after the comedy shit, y’know?”

“He wasn’t very good in it, I didn’t think so,” I mutter, opening my phone again. “Didn’t have the right voice type.”

“Who’s John Legend?” Bonnie asks, and though I’m not looking at her, I sense Elle rolling her eyes.

_Kimball also stated that “There was something strange about the guy. You got the sense he was hiding something from you — maybe that’s just my intuition? Either way, he was a strange character.” Many would agree with this assessment. Ultimately, Kimball could not identify any reason Bateman would have to kill Owen. They notably hardly interacted at all until the months leading up to the disappearance, shortly after a similar “vanishing act” pulled by another investment banker in the company. Bateman’s behavior during the interview with Kimball, however, was strange._

I think about this other “vanishing act” for a few minutes, vaguely familiar with it, but I can’t quite place who it is that disappeared. Obviously, I’m very familiar with someone who disappeared recently, but this has nothing to do with that disappearance. Why, I’m thinking, is it so familiar? Stumped, I read on.

_Bateman, multiple times, attempted to derail the conversation, and seemed to be “forcing a smile,” as well as not being able to give a solid story as to where he was and what he was doing the night of the incident. The behavior was suspicious, but not enough to convict someone, and Bateman “did seem actively interested in finding the guy,” according to the detective. Further observations of and investigations into Patrick Bateman revealed some worrying details and habits: walking the streets of Manhattan alone, late at night, a financial record of hiring prostitutes on the level of a sex addict..._

I retch. Nobody notices. _Bon Bon, you dumb bitch,_ I think, as a bickering match as to who John Legend is begins, _you best be glad I don’t usually spend time with you._

_...as well as purchasing large amounts of hardware that a Wall Street success story would never need to have. More serious investigations into the disappearance revealed a collection of unused sharp implements in one cupboard of his kitchen, though there was no corroborating evidence that any of these potential murder items had been used. Additionally, any and all examinations showed no evidence of bloodshed anywhere Bateman was known to have frequented._

_However, further interviews revealed something entirely to the contrary of what this behavior would suggest. Bateman was viewed as entirely harmless, if a little strange, and with an obsession surrounding serial killers and horror movies._

I actually manage to crack a smile. While I’ve been reading the article — which has taken longer than it really ought to, as I’ve been scanning each paragraph several times to make sure I have all the details right — the conversation has moved along, and Elle’s lips are moving soundlessly. I try not to look at them for a few seconds, pink and glossy, then I realise she’s asking me something. “Huh?” I ask, looking up and angling my phone away from her, because I sense she’s trying to look at what I’m reading, and I really don’t want to explain myself.

She sighs, as if repeating herself is a chore, as if I’m actually causing the bitch an inconvenience by listening to what she has to say, but her voice nonetheless sounds very earnest. “I’ve got tickets to see _Hadestown_ tomorrow night. Well, one free ticket, and I don’t want to go alone. Want to go with me?”

_Despite all this, eventually, it turned out that the investigation into the man was entirely pointless — Paul Owen had been found in London._

Now, that’s exciting. The turmoil and sickly feeling that had risen in me subsides, and I nod, genuinely interested. Bonnie glares pointedly at Conrad again, who shrugs helplessly.

_Shortly after Owen was discovered in England, he returned to New York and, for the most part, resumed his career for a good few years, before quitting and moving to California with his wife and infant child..._

“Tiffany,” I murmur, relaxing.

“Oooh, I _luh-_ ve the perfumes they sell there,” Bonnie stretches the last word into two syllables, gushing, distracted. “Just last week I...” Her voice becomes buzzing white noise.

“Cool,” says Elle. She smiles, and I flush pink. “Cool, I’ll pick you up around 5:00 on Saturday, we can get dinner somewhere first.” 

_...in late 1995. Both men, Owen and Bateman, had been approached for interviews several times, as the story caused somewhat of a stir in tabloids at the time. Though, the only remaining statement that research revealed from this time was from Bateman: “That was a dark time in my life. Hell’s gonna freeze over before I speak about it again. Get that fucking camera out of my face.”_

_That is where the story ended. All the workings of a murder plot. A prime suspect with a flimsy alibi and a motive, a sudden and jarring disappearance; and yet, there was no dead man. This begs the question: what really happened? Due to the silence on the part of both men, there is no true way of knowing, though several theories have arisen owing to the trend of breakdowns on Wall Street, owing to the excessive yuppie lifestyle. Could it be that Paul Owen and Patrick Bateman were both victims of society? Were they attention seekers, or did they genuinely need the help that was so vehemently denied to them? Both men stood in the dark shadows of the city, and so, it seems, will the true story of this disappearance stand with them until one breaks his silence._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now working on the next chapter! I know it's been a while but I really wanna get this up, I've just been having a bit of writer's block.


	13. WAY DOWN, HADESTOWN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go ahead and lay the blame  
> Talk of virtue  
> Talk of sin  
> Wouldn't you have done the same?  
> In her shoes?  
> In her skin?

It’s Saturday afternoon and I find myself exhausted. As I’m cleaning my hands in the kitchen sink with a Le Creuset muslin dishcloth, sunlight seems to force its way through the blinds and shines harsh yellow bars on my bare arms that feel as though they’re ever so slightly burning, and the cloth has gone from white to the colour of a fresh bruise, and I’ll probably have to throw it out. From the marble countertop, my phone buzzes with a call from Elle Halberstam, rattling the Georg Jensen silver metal coffee tin like an old fashioned alarm clock. Alarmed — I’ve been in a jumpy mood all day — I curse loudly, then frown and glare at the offending device, but nevertheless bother to answer it with my elbow, put it onto loudspeaker, a feat that genuinely impresses me for a few seconds. At first there’s no speaking, just the sound of cars passing by on her end, and someone who sounds drunk shouting something, their voice slowly getting more faint as Elle presumably walks away. “Are- Are you there?” She finally breaks the tension, sounding harassed and slightly out of breath, my jaw clenching at the sound of her voice.

“I’m here,” I say casually after waiting an exact ten seconds that I count out in my head. “What’s up,  _ sweetie? _ "

“Don’t get cute with me,  _ Bateman _ ,” she sounds annoyed but I can hear that she’s smiling, and I know she likes how I ‘get cute’ with her. It’s no skin off my back — but I hate the way she said my name. “It’s about tonight, I-”

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you’re gonna have to cancel.” I inject an _ I’m joking around  _ tone into my voice, but I can already feel a migraine coming on at the thought, a glance towards Stradivarius halter top, the Choies red pencil flare skirt, and the black Louboutins laid out on the sofa waiting for me, and then at the bathroom door, which is open a crack, telling me only this:  _ I cannot afford to miss this show. _ There isn’t any other option for me, for today, for this evening. “You’re not, though,” I dry my hands off, close the bathroom door, and with a hint of caution, add, “Right?”

“ _ No _ ,  _ love _ of my  _ life _ , just the meal,” she says impatiently, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “We’re still seeing  _ Hadestown _ .”

I’m thinking of the mezzanine seats we have, Row A, seats 107 and 108, and how my brother (I assume it was my brother who booked the tickets, as I have a hunch that I was not the original Bateman going to see this show with Elle Halberstam) managed to book such good seats. I’m thinking of how I’ll need to call building maintenance, or some kind of carpenter, because the bathroom door has managed to slide open again with a surprisingly loud creak that, again, startles me. “ _ Fuck,  _ uh, okay,” I manage to say, smiling at no one, and though I’m genuinely relieved at the positive confirmation, something still doesn’t feel right. “I’ll see you at the theatre?”

“Try not to be late,” she replies, a hint of sarcasm in her tone, utterly fooled by my calm tone. “ _ Seriously _ , Cass, I’m pretty sure if you arrive as early as you did last time we showed up, you’ll be there before even the  _ actors  _ have-”

“Yeah,  _ yeah _ , yeah, okay,” I cut her off. “See you at the theatre.”

I hang up my phone, and as I change, think about if Elle will notice the small flecks of red still on my hands, or if she’s more liable to notice that I didn’t have the time to get my nails done before we meet like I usually do. I think about the girl I met at Starbucks this morning whilst picking up a drink for Tiffany and myself (only realising after I’d stepped out the door that it wasn’t a work day, and handing off the spare drink to some homeless guy), and how I remembered her from highschool from that time I handcuffed her to a radiator and made her beg for mercy as I pressed lit cigarettes to her skin. I’m thinking about the night at that college mixer where Elle and I first met, how we were inseparable following that. I’m thinking about how that girl from Starbucks doesn’t have the scars from it anymore, and how I don’t remember her name, nor why I decided to torture her that day, but she did gave me a hateful enough look in that Starbucks for me to decide that whatever she had done, it was definitely worth it. I’m thinking about why I hate Elle now, why Elle makes me feel sick now, trying to come up with any plausible reason that would make it feel justified, but there’s nothing better I can come up with than “She’s prettier than me.” That’s such a lame reason that I almost feel bad for her. Almost. She really doesn’t know how useless her kindness towards me is, how little it changes. I’m thinking about how I’ll have to take the dress I was wearing — which is now on the sofa where my current outfit was previously, and is black and white, striped, by Jason Wu — to the dry cleaners to get the stains out of it tomorrow, because I like it and don’t want to have to burn it like I did with the one I wore to Ai Fiori that night. I’m thinking about how the bathroom door is open again, and I didn’t hear it open this time. Frowning, I close it.

After a ride in a cab I’m outside of the Walter Kerr theatre at 7:10 PM, waiting in line to get inside and Elle, who has the tickets with her, has not arrived yet, and I’m growing impatient; you would think she’d know my habit of showing up to things early for now. The city smells strongly of bonfire smoke for some reason, and it’s getting close to sunset, the sun hanging low and lazy over the city in the sky, staining the clouds an enrapturing shade of pink. Somehow, despite the setting sun, it’s still as hot as it was at midday. Compared to the Longacre theatre across the street and running _ The Prom _ , which seems to be seeing a lot of tourists and teenagers in line, the audience of  _ Hadestown  _ is much more my scene: mostly young couples who are all arm in arm, who strangely seem to match the show in terms of their outfits. There are red carnations in their perfectly styled, freshly cut hair and form-fitting designer dresses and suits, impeccable manicures. In the sea of black, burgundy, and grey, someone stands out. She is in a pale pink Emilio Pucci blouse with patterned sleeves, white flare trousers by Theory, Dune London heels in a deep blue that match her undefinably angular earrings, of which I can’t identify a designer, and they’re definitely cheap, but the woman wearing them makes them look incredibly expensive, giving me a feeling of irritation somehow so consuming that it takes her actually speaking to me once she draws near for me to realise it’s Halberstam. Halberstam looks  _ much  _ better than everyone else here, including myself, and I’m so immediately and intensely humiliated that I can’t meet her eye, and about a minute passes before she makes an attempt at conversation.

“Have you seen it?” she asks at the instant the line begins to move into the lobby, the heat blowing out from it a breath from the gaping maw of some kind of monster posing as a theatre. “ _ Hadestown _ , have you…?” She trails off, her voice steadily getting softer at my lack of a response, or even an acknowledgement.

It’s as we step through the doors to the lobby that I even respond, meaning Elle has had to wait a good few minutes for me to say anything, during which time I feel as though I’ve barely blinked, stealing glances at her face which was quickly but subtly becoming more miserable with every passing second. “No, but I listen to it a lot.” Which is actually the truth, and I look up at her, trying to gauge her reaction; disappointingly, I can’t discern anything strong from her. “Reviewers are raving about it, though.” 

All of a sudden, Elle’s silence has me interested in conversation, and though it could’ve been possible she was doing the same thing I was just to get back at me, there’s an increasingly distant look in her eyes by the time we get to our seats (on the way I learned an understudy is playing the role of Hermes), which are glassy behind her spectacles. There are people sat on either side of us, and though on one hand I’d very much like to soak up the atmosphere of this theatre, one I’ve never been in before, Elle is doing nothing but stare up into a currently unlit stage light, almost unblinking, probably thinking about when her next vacation is.

“Sorry I ignored you,” I finally speak up, quietly, as earnestly I can manage.

Elle blinks, and seems to return to reality somewhat. Her gaze is dazed and almost unfocused, and though normally I’d giggle and point it out, when she quickly refocuses and answers I’m in no mood to do so. “Huh?” She blinks.

“I ignored you before,” I reiterate, changing my phrasing to something a little more accurate to how I really feel, “and now you’re doing the same to me.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just been…” Halberstam thinks for a few seconds, and then something that seemed to be missing from her has returned, there’s life in her eyes now where there previously was very little, and a smile playing upon her pink painted lips. “The meeting today was  _ exhausting.  _ I feel like they wouldn’t stop grilling me, you know how it is.”

“Yeah…” I nod slowly, then shake my head, staring at a few scratches on the back of the seat in front of me, setting my jaw. “Yeah, no, not really.” Swallowing my pride and anticipating how bad the answer to this question will make me feel, I look up at her and ask, “What account are you working on right now?”

“The O’Brien account,” she says coolly, returning completely to the Elle Halberstam I know, calm and collected. “A real competitive one, you know?” I smile and nod, prompting her to continue her story. “So of course when it got  _ given  _ to me over at Bistro Forty6 — that’s where I was today, go there if you ever get the chance — then it got given to me, I thought it’d be chill, but  _ no _ .” She throws up her hands and rolls her eyes, momentarily distracted by the band tuning their instruments. “It was like the guys there expected me to have a plan for an account I’ve never even looked at before!”

“Yeesh.” I’m looking at the band, too, sighing heavily. “That bad?”

“I mean,  _ yeah,  _ and…” The dullness creeps back into her eyes and her voice, and all of a sudden dread settles in me, predicting exactly what she’s going to say. “I didn’t want to say but… you feel like shit because of… it, y’know?” She gives me a look for a few seconds, but all I can think about is that I’ve remembered the real reason I hate her now. “I mean, what if they never find h-”

“Not now, Elle,” I cut her off with a glare so sharp that she actually looks a little frightened of me, at which I soften my gaze a little. “Please. I just… want to not think about it-  _ him _ … anymore.” 

“Oh… I shouldn’t have-” she tries to apologise, but I cut her off again

“ _ You _ shouldn’t think about him anymore. You’re being very inappropriate, bringing him up at a  _ theatre,  _ what if people are listening?” I continue, pretending to sound affronted, revelling in the guilty look on her face, and quickly change the subject before she can think of anything else to say, “Do you want a drink? We’ve got time, I’ll get us served quick. Something strong.”

“Yeah,” she practically breathes, “I would like that a lot.”

I get back to our seats with two cheap plastic cups of wine, and neither of us even get the chance to say a word to one another (not that we would anyway, after that small argument) before the lights dim and Hadestown begins. Act 1 is incredibly enjoyable, during which I make the following observations whilst determinedly ignoring the now-silent Elle — Eva Noblezada, who is the actress in one of the lead roles, kind of looks like Rachael Blaire from work; the characterisation of Hades sets off a familiar pang in me, and the deep tone of his actor’s voice is impresses me thoroughly; I felt strangely distant and emotional at the same time during the song “Wait for Me”, a moving chorus-centered ballad from the lead role, and looking at Elle, she seems to feel the same way, very dewy-eyed. After a rather poignant song at the end of the act called “Why We Build the Wall” that somehow isn’t actually an allegory for the current presidency but certainly sounds like one, the actress playing Persephone struts onstage and calls out in her sort-of gravelly voice,  _ “Anybody want a drink?” _

There’s a piano chord, the lights go down, everyone exits the stage, and Elle puts the plastic cup in my hands, avoiding eye contact with me and quickly excusing herself to the bathroom, which I give no response to.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” a voice chirps from nowhere after a few moments.

“Hm?” I look around, and see that the person who spoke is the person sitting next to me, a pretty girl who can’t be older than nineteen, dressed in a rather flattering yellow polka-dotted Stradivarius button-up blouse, clearly thoroughly taken by the atmosphere of the show. I make myself smile, and prompt her to repeat herself — “What’s that?”

“God, this sounds creepy,” she laughs breathily, almost nervously, which makes me laugh too, tilting my head to one side, “I feel like I’ve been looking across at you through the whole act, and I  _ swear. To. God...  _ I know you from somewhere.”

“Oh really?” I ask, and then mischievously decide to say, “ _ Guess _ .”

“Oh, geez, I don’t know…” The girl makes a big show of tapping her chin, which I suppose is meant to come off as cute, and asks, “Are you a model?” I shake my head  _ no. _ “Singer?” I smile, and shake my head again. “Influencer? Nah, that’s… I think that’s someone else who  _ looks  _ like you… actress? That’s what you are, right, an actress?”   
  
“Flattering, but… no.” I absent-mindedly stack the two wine cups together and tap them upside down on the arm rests of the seat. “Well, I used to be, but just onstage in amateur productions, I haven’t been in one since-”

“ _ Carrie _ !” I’m surprised by her sudden outburst, but nonetheless nod slowly.

“ _ Carrie _ !” I echo cautiously, acutely aware of the few people that look around at her, as well as her mother from the seat to the left of her that gives me a rather _ sorry about my kid _ look that I don’t acknowledge.

  
“You were in  _ Carrie _ , right? Oh God, I loved that show, super  _ intense _ .” She folds her arms across her chest and bows her head slightly almost as if in prayer, wispy blonde hair obscuring her eyes as she does. “Sad thing you don’t do shows now, you’ve got one hell of a voice, as I remember. You should be on this stage, not that Eva…” She squints and furrows her eyebrows, apparently in very deep thought. “ _ What’s-her-name… _ ”

“Oh… thanks,” I say, bewildered, hoping to change the subject before the kid hurts herself trying to remember the name of a Broadway actress. “Thank you. It’s not my thing anymore. I do investment banking.”

“Huh…” She nods, but is clearly leagues less interested now. “That’s… important, right?” 

“Sure is, I’m handing a  _ huge  _ account right now, just like my buddy here, I’m handling the…” For a moment I consider the ethics of lying to someone who doesn’t know any better, who’ll never find out that I told her something that wasn’t true, but I come to the realisation that people who are better humans than me do it  _ every single day _ without consequence, and so I double down, just because I can: “Oh shit, uh — the  _ O’Brien Account _ .”

She nods, totally believing me, but at the same time, totally bored of me. “Right,” she says seriously, before ever so slightly too quickly opening up her Playbill and scanning over the advertisements for other shows.

I don’t really care about her anymore and, strangely, nor do I care about the show anymore, or the fact that Elle has returned. I’ve come back to the state I’ve been in so many times before, and will likely continue to fall back into in the future: nothing I do really matters in the grand scheme of things. This feeling is so depressing and so all consuming that I don’t pay attention to the second act at all, nor do I even touch the cup of overpriced vanilla ice cream that Elle returns with (“They’d ran out of the  _ good  _ flavours,” she told me), I simply alternate between watching it melt and pointing my eyes towards the stage, pretending to be engaged. I realise that the second act of this show is incredibly emotional and moving, and perhaps might have been able to stir some kind of feeling in me, but since I’ve been hit by the overwhelming realisation that none of the emotions being displayed on that stage are actually real, just fake, it all rings very hollow and I find it very pointless. I’m disappointed by this, because I wanted to feel something tonight, even if it wasn’t positive, and I get a very strong inclination that this will continue for the rest of the evening’s events.

Predictably, by the time the show is done and the two of us have headed back to Elle’s apartment, a Sky Luxury Apartment down by the Hudson, likely not the only apartment she owns in this city (she’s  _ that  _ rich), my mood, or lack thereof, has not shifted in the slightest. The sleek black and white minimalist look of the place reminds me very strongly of my own apartment, strangely, but after another glass of wine I’m no longer thinking about anything like that, the feeling of inadequacy that would spring up drowning and dying in the liquor. 

“Like it?” Elle asks from across the room, lounging on her sofa,  _ her  _ mood having improved significantly, though that’s probably because she’s a lightweight. “This place, I mean. I just moved in. Nice, right?”

Swallowing my pride, I nod a  _ yes _ , sparing her the briefest of glances before focusing back in on the view, reminded of my birthday celebration a few months, or weeks, ago, only I can’t see my reflection on top of the city skyline this time. That’s fine, because I dread to think about how I look right now. Sure, I probably look just as great as I did when I first arrived at the theatre, but I’m paranoid that something on my face might have smudged, or there’s a wrinkle in my dress, or my hair got messed up, or at the very least became frizzy due to the wind. Though I really shouldn’t care about how I look in front of this woman, because we’ve known each other for long enough that little things like that shouldn’t matter, they  _ do _ . I have something to live up to, now, I have a standard that I need to meet.

“Look… I know that before it wasn’t…” She chews her bottom lip for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. “It wasn’t the  _ best _ time to bring  _ it  _ up, but-”

“Elle.”

“ _ Hear me out _ , Cass,” she presses on, suddenly so intense that I’m taken aback and let her speak, “we haven’t talked about… about PJ. Not seriously, a-anyway, and you’re my  _ best friend _ , you’re his  _ sister,  _ and…”

Here we go. She trails off, expecting me to say something, but I’ve got nothing to say to her and so I opt to settle next to her on the sofa, and place my hand over hers in what she interprets as a comforting gesture, and an invitation to continue speaking. Though I’m trying very hard not to listen, her words could not be more clear to me, as if the world is drowning out any other noises in order to force me to hear what she has to say.

“I think he’s dead,” she sounds entirely serious, and a shudder runs up my spine like a spider, so affecting that I don’t notice Elle has slipped her hand on top of mine and leaned in near my face. “I’m almost certain. If they haven’t found him by now, then…” I swallow dryly, and look up into her eyes. “I… don’t know. Don’t you miss him too?”

“No,” I say simply, unblinking.

“Yeah…” Halberstam nods, swaying lightly where she sits. “I know…”

Just as I had expected would happen right about now, Elle’s eyes flutter for a second, and then slip shut, one of the false eyelashes coming slightly loose as they do. She slumps into me, face landing just off my shoulder, lips on my exposed collarbone as if kissing it. I shiver again, but don’t move her, instead getting out my phone and pausing the timer I had set. The exact amount of time it takes a safe dose of Nitrazepam to knock someone of Elle’s height and weight out is three hours, four minutes, and fifty-five seconds.

The doorman, who I assume to be new to his job due to how young he looks, doesn’t question me as I carry the sleeping Elle and lie her down in the back seat of my car, and drive slowly past restaurants and boats down to the West 39th street ferry terminal, which is completely abandoned, so as not to wake her up even a little, even though I am confident that the drug will keep her out for a good while longer now. Once parked, I look in the back seat for the two things I had left there: Elle Halberstam’s handbag, from which I retrieve the  _ Hadestown  _ tickets and put them in my own, and a plastic bag from Gym Source containing four pairs of 10KG weights, which I load into her handbag and zip shut again. Then, I tie one end of a plastic climbing rope I picked up from the hardware store on the upper east side to the handles of the bag in a tight knot, and the other end to the sleeping Elle’s wrists. Realising there is no way I can manage the weight of both Elle and the bag, I untie her wrists and carry the bag up to the railings first, placing it on the side near the water, then carry Elle over, close and lock the door, and thank God, if He exists, that nobody has walked by or seen me. I position the somehow  _ still  _ passed out Elle as if she’s looking out over to New Jersey and then tie her wrists again, this time tighter than before just to spite her.

Earlier this week, my dad met me outside of work after I had finished unexpectedly. He doesn’t go into the city much, and as I expected, he looked pretty uneasy, especially looking up at the towering monolith of an office block I had stepped outside of. We walked back to my apartment and talked the whole way there, and when he asked if I was doing anything this weekend, I didn’t tell him I was seeing  _ Hadestown  _ with Elle. There was no real rhyme or reason to my actions, and truth be told, I have a feeling he was angling to ask me if I wanted to spend time with him, but he never quite got to it. Or, he might have been getting it, but as soon as I got home, I was gripped with the sudden need to escape him, somehow threatened, fearing he might learn how awful I really am — not because I feel remorse for that, but because it’d be one hell of a mess to deal with, or at the very least to explain it in a way that would make him ignore it for another week at best. Still, the split-second glimpse I got of his face looking utterly miserable as I turned away was just  _ too  _ funny. 

The current of the Hudson looks strong tonight, and soon enough, the sound of rushing water and the cold night air seems to wake Halberstam up slowly, during which time I’ve posed with her, also pretending to look out over the river, but in reality I can’t see anything for a few feet in front of me, just the murky depths of the river. Her eyes open a mite, and I wait for a few moments until she’s somewhat aware of where she is and her situation before I nudge the bag into the Hudson with my foot. Elle only has enough time to look at me in horror, unable to make a sound as she follows the handbag into the river, the tight bonds snapping her wrists with an audible  _ crack  _ as she goes. Somehow, her glasses are left behind where she stood, which I pick up and slip into my handbag, even though it’d probably make more sense to throw them into the river after her. Though I’ve never drowned anyone before, it’s highly probable that Elle will have already drowned by the time the drug wears off enough for her to have full control of her body, and I get a strong burst of inspiration to draw what I think she’ll look like in a week or two, ravaged by rot and fish, no longer the hottest thing at Pierce & Pierce. I consider jumping in the river too. After hanging around a few more minutes to ensure nobody has seen, I leave. I trawl along the side of the river, holding up Halberstam’s glasses to Lady Liberty’s eyes, realising how similar the two look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE BACK, BOIS


	14. THE MORNING AFTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blithe smile, lithe limb  
> She who's winsome, she wins him

I’m at 880 Fifth Avenue. It’s a beautiful apartment that was designed by renowned architect Emery Roth, and was the first building to be completed on Fifth Avenue after the second world war, the last of the buildings to be designed by Roth. The building has a 24-hour doorman, concierge, three attended elevators, a garage available at a discount to residents, a state-of-the-art fitness center with a yoga/pilates room, a laundry room, and private storage. The apartment I’m in, 9L, is particularly enchanting; a one bedroom 1.5 bathroom suite featuring a custom wall bar with island, restored hardwood floors throughout, a stunning ensuite master bathroom with soaking tub and large glass enclosed walk in shower, Miele stacked individual washer and dryer, and an updated windowed kitchen outfitted with top of the line appliances from Viking and Subzero. I’m remarkably jealous I didn’t consider this place when I was first house-hunting in the city, and though my own apartment is almost equally comfortable, there is no denying that this place has a touch of luxury that I feel could fill the void in me for at least a month.

The bed on which I’m lounging on in the master bedroom is tastefully colourless, fitted with silver Egyptian cotton bed sheets that I believe are by Symons. A beautiful Turkish Angora cat humorously named “Miss Flumfts” has settled on my lap, purring loudly and happily as I stroke behind her ears. With my other hand, I’m flicking through an old copy of GQ magazine, landing on an article titled “How social media (finally) killed irony” that probably would be interesting if the author wasn’t so up his own ass. The shower in the adjacent ensuite turns off, and about a minute later, Eric Hamlin reappears, a towel around his waist, his blond curls darkened by the water. He looks at me for a moment — my legs, my hair, the lace shoulder nightgown from The White Company, my chest, my bedhead — and then, cracking an awkward grin, crosses the room to the dresser, searching through it. For a couple of minutes as he locates underwear and socks we ignore each other, or at the very least, _I_ ignore _him_.

“Was it… good for you?” he finally, delicately asks, having thrown on an oversized Moschino shirt and ran a brush through his hair, the curls starting to spring back up.

By this point I’ve set aside the copy of GQ, which I set aside on the bedside table, continuing to stroke at the cat. I’m seriously considering getting a cat of my own because of this, but I’ll have to check if my apartment allows it. “Yeah,” I say with a flirtatious grin, being completely honest in my assessment, and though I don’t want to give him any reason to believe I’m game for a second round of sex, I see no reason to tear him down. “Yeah, it was.”

In the past few weeks, I’ve become more and more at peace with the thought that I now have a boyfriend, and even if Eric might not be the kind of person I can see myself spending my life with; even if we do get married, it’s kind of reassuring to know that at the very least, someone thinks of _me_ as someone worthwhile. I’m well aware that I’m far from the only girl he has his eyes on, and the chances are, I won’t even have to break off the relationship myself. Instead, the moment he sees someone else, I’m sure we won’t even exchange words, it will just be over and done with. 

“Cool,” he seems visibly relieved by this admission, leaving the room to search through his closet.

Bored, I look up at the walls, and notice that they’re entirely barren of decoration, with no kind of feature wall to make up for it, and it begins to bother me so much that, when Hamlin returns, dressed in a blue and white striped oxford shirt, navy chinos, and suede loafers, all by Ralph Lauren, I pose the question to him.

“Have you ever thought about putting something up on these?” I sit up, letting the cat walk off my lap and out of the room. “The walls. No paintings, nothing?”

He looks at the walls as if he’d just noticed they’re bare, and nods slowly. “I could probably afford to brighten the place up a little,” he agrees, studying the place. “Usually, it’s just me here, so I don’t—” His cheeks dust a little pink and he averts eye contact, but I just grin at him, knowing he was about to say that he doesn’t usually have people around, knowing he probably only tidied his place up in anticipation that I’d be coming home with him last night, or maybe some other girl, like Rachael Blaire, who I happen to know is crushing on him.

“I’ve got some paintings hanging above my bed you can have.” I stand up and stretch, squeezing my eyes shut and picturing said paintings, ones that I painted in my first year of college. “I don’t want them.” 

I take a Levonelle with a glass of water on the nightstand, and get dressed for work.


End file.
